𖹭

Aventurine

Exposed

he tries really hard to create some kind of persona for you, to make you believe he’s this amazing guy. in truth, he’s deeply wounded, nightmares when he’s sleeping, his insistent neediness that you swear stems from his kindling loneliness because he doesn’t speak too often of family or friends outside of you or work colleagues from the IPC. and especially the panic that shadows his face when he hasn’t seen you in hours—it’s the small things that add into a big mountain of burdens that aventurine tries so hard to keep behind a tight lock, but doesn’t seem to realize, he’s more of an open book than he likes to believe. 

and it’s really sad, pathetic even, for him to act so untrue, that there’s a tiny, tiny, shrivel of pity you feel because it’s all obviously a play. if not for you, but for himself, to compensate for something he’s missing. and now there’s you, and all he really wants is to make sure all is well. he never speaks much of his past or anything else; you never will get to know aventurine truly, at least within the first few months of being taken by him.

you try to make sense of it, in the midst of all this chaos, what has killed aventurine? 

it’s only when that mask slips off, but it happens in particularly vulnerable moments that you truly see who he is—you weren’t there after a nasty dream. when he tries to reach over to hold your hand, calming his heart, he’s met with an empty, cold space. and he doesn’t find you for a while, frantically scrambling around every corner of the house, till he finds you tucked away on the opposite side of everything else, seas and mountains away from him, with a thin blanket on top of you and a makeshift pillow. 

you wake up to him throwing himself on you, arms wrapped around your torso in a tight squeeze you almost cough out as you blink your eyes awake. 

why’d you leave me? 

you kept tossing and turning…and i didn’t want to bother you, so i gave you some space—

i don’t want space!

he looks so angry with you. you hunch over slightly, scared for the next few moments. but his eyes are red, dried trails of tears splotched on his cheeks. he lets out loud shudders of breath as if he just ran a marathon. 

but his face softens, watches how your face crinkles just under the pressure of his voice, and he leans into you with his head down, hands inching to cradle your hands softly. his body now less tense, less guarded, more soft, i never asked for space from you. that’s not what i want. 

you let him play with your fingers, well, what do you want, aventurine? 

i want you there with me all the time. i want you to never leave me. i don’t want to be alone again. not without you. 

his voice sounds so small, so uncharacteristically him, and you have to ask yourself then, as his eyes turn into mirrors swallowing you whole, did you ever truly know him? you don’t really know how to respond to that, but this might be it, his truth, behind that bright facade, this is what lies beneath. something fragile, could shatter at any moment. 

tell me you love me, he looks up at you. say it to me now.

so you say it, accepting his command, and you watch as he comes undone, crumbling into dust, and you’re forced to pick up the pieces to mould him back together again. only you do this to him. 

Kisses

normally, aventurine could be described as “gaudy” in every sense of the word. he’s bright, stimulating, has this flamboyant sway to him, and when he talks, he’s fast on his feet—witty, can be funny, as much as he can be condescending. he just has command, carefully steering his appearances; therefore, he’s not the shy kind when it comes to showing affections. Far from it, he does not need to keep the PDA behind closed doors. when aventurine has its sights set on you, everyone knows. and everyone steers clear of you. 

a hand on your shoulder, tugging you right into him, as if two opposite poles—you push off, he pulls harder. a pinky inches away from your own very tip, hand set on the table as he eyes the dents and wrinkles on each digit of your hand. he crawls daintily, before engulfing yours with his, gloves long discarded. by the first month of him pining, you’ve grown to be familiar with the feeling of his skin on yours. you learn to like deep, long hugs, till you’re practically crushed up against him, and he’s breathing in the scent of your air until it becomes the very oxygen that orbits him.  if you dare pull away, he'll dig his nails into you, until you have no choice but to surrender yourself entirely, and he swallows you whole for it.

it’s funny from the perspective of anyone else’s; he’s often serious when working. lax, but serious. but with you, it’s like everything else around him collapses at your weight. you’re all he cares about, needy and attached to your hip, wanting to burrow himself into you every time you go an inch too far from his hold. 

his eyes never stray too far from yours, either, always trying to catch up, even to a singular stray shadow of yours. he likes to trace the lines of your features; the slope of your nose, the dimple by your lips. and he’ll tell it all to you, like making simple notes on his grocery list—says it like a compliment, how beautiful your eyelashes look when dabbled in the deluge of your tears. the glisten of your cheeks after a downpour because, aeons, aventurine can have a pretty nasty tongue as much as he can love you so much. 

he likes to rile you up, provoke you until you’re all warm in the face and something is boiling inside of you, ready to let out. he says he’s just teasing, but his words can be so hurtful, especially on days when you’re far less than kind. aventurine justifies it, says it’s just banter between two couples, and you need to grow thicker skin. frankly, he just likes to draw out all kinds of expressions on your faces. pleasure, anger, happiness, sadness. he likes watching how your face contorts and twists, and how you acclimate by leaning your head against his chest, and you let him comfort you. because who else can you lean on besides aventurine? he’s made sure of this. you're all his; the thought makes him all giddy.

there's always a box by your door as well. a new piece of gold or jewel. maybe it's some kind of high-fashion designer, paired with rich-smelling scents. or could it be the newest novelty item all high-brow society has been raving about? does it matter which? because there's an increasingly growing pile of all the same things at the back of your closet. all the riches aventurine can afford, thrown your way as if a piece offering, praying to you, please accept me. please love me. here is my devotion. this is the price i pay.

and on most nights---no, every night, his lips feel soft on the skin of your neck, but his tongue is so rough when he swipes down that sensitive strip of land from your neck down to your sternum. his teeth full of poison when he bites down when you try to flinch from him. he does this every night, he’s ritualistic about his methods.

you’re everything to him. he wants to be your everything. you’re all he has, and he’s all you’ll ever have (one day). he’ll do whatever he so damn pleases with you. 

Yearn

answered here.

Ashveil

Exposed

he’s hard to tell, especially with deeper, more personal stuff. it’s like if you tried to get him to crack open, you’re biting off more than you could chew. he’d give in for a few scraps here and there, but it wouldn’t give you the entire picture. even mr. n, who practically narrates everything ashveil does, which makes you feel as if you’re directly reading every stream of thought coming from ashveil, but suddenly the little monkey is tight-lipped. you can’t even pry the damn thing, nor bribe mr. n with bananas, the monkey just malfunctions on you and stares off into space.

then you shake your head, try to convince yourself you actually don’t care to know anything about ashveil. last you checked, this was starting to seem like stockholm syndrome. but…why sleep in a fridge? even he’s a little weird about that when asked. 

see, he makes it difficult being mysterious and nonchalant. ashveil just has to have these weird quirks of his that itch you with an intense curiosity, but your reach is too short to scratch. he’ll just wave you off, tell you it’s nothing to worry about, but he has to have a deeper reason as to the wistful look on his face on some days. and on some days, he’ll look at old photos of old colleagues, and all he’ll say to us is that they’re all in better places now. then you look at the stack of bills on his desk, ask why he’s so keen on giving things away, and he shakes his head and tells you not to worry your pretty head with it. which you point to the scattered pill bottles all around his office, a messy array of other things, and he’ll shrug. you care about me?

you deny that notion. but ashveil smiles. the rest of the day goes on, with you having given up trying to comprehend a man like him. he seems complicated to you, as much as he seems tired and lonesome some days. perhaps that’s why he’s all like…this?

in nights after you’ve long fallen asleep, he’ll stay beside you as he runs his hand through your hair, thinks of words on how to exactly phrase what he wants to truly answer your questions. he wants to bare himself to you, naked and true, but he hesitates. something clammers inside his throat, a stinging that tastes shame.

not today, ashveil thinks. or maybe not ever. because you’re a fresh new start, something he can hold on to and make sure you stay here forever, with him, so whatever had hurt him doesn’t happen the same with you. 

Kisses

he’s an incredibly attentive partner overall, notices every habit you have and every change you undergo, even ones you try not to let anyone else notice. how you bite the inside of your cheeks when you’re deep in thought, how your leg bounces up and down when you’re in a hurry, but you can’t move from your seat. textures and sounds that trigger you, how you lie, and how you are when honest. if you ask him to put his finger on the hammering pulse of your heart, there against your wrist, he could even tell you how you honestly feel just based on the pattern of your heartbeats. 

it scares you—ashveil, being nice, being attentive and kind, being giving, and being so lovely. how he’s soft with you every morning, when he kisses you awake by placing his lips on your closed eyes, and how he always says goodbye to you before leaving. how he’s willing to always service you in some way if you seem stressed. but you know, behind all of this is a facade—ashveil has a calm demeanor that’s all pleasant, but if provoked enough, he’ll bite right back, all nasty and cruel. 

when he’s harder around the edges, he’s stricter with you, and ready to go into battle at any slight offence thrown your way, things he perceives as threats. a glance too long from a stranger, ashveil is already there with a subtle threat thrown their way. a friend who keeps blowing up your phone with so many texts? when you’re asleep, he’s deleting your contacts and comes up with a convenient lie that your friend was actually shit-talking behind your back all this time. you’re arguing with him again, same reasons over and over again. and each time, you’re met with equally harsher words and no outside privilege for a week. and no, it’s not unnecessary to do such things if it means protecting you and keeping you in line. don’t even bother applying morality to this, ashveil won’t have it. 

then he’ll go back to his usual self. once everything passes by, as they always do, he’ll forgive you. pulls you into his lap, weighing you down with his arms around your waist, chin resting on top of your shoulder, breath tickling your neck, see, it ain’t so bad to be good, darling? and in this quiet moment alone, he’ll confess how much it hurts him to even think of a scenario where you're leaving him.  

Yearn

he’s agonizingly methodical; he can go on for a long, long time. he’s assured in his skills of stalking that he can sit by and watch you for some time, just to make sure he’s had everything memorized about you. down from your everyday routine to what patterns you like in your outfits. ashveil keeps a pretty level-headedness in this situation through and through, not the type to he hasty or get too irritable and threatened to act. if anything, he’d want to approach this naturally. 

so, no, it’s not a matter of “snapping” for him. it’s only a matter of when you slowly start to realize that one figure always in your periphery, or that guy you see sitting in the same spot in a cafe you frequent often. he has this all planned, but to you it reads like pure coincidences, a string drawn between you and this long haired stranger with a flashy smile and quirky pet. you’ll feel safe and comfortable with him, thinking how it’s all meant to be, but this is when all the information he’s learned about you comes in handy. 

he plays the waiting game; he’s more than fine abiding his time for when it’s right. this way, you’ll fall into his arms naturally. there wouldn’t be any space for doubt or fear from the get-go because you’ll learn to actually love him. 

Phainon

Exposed

phainon believes that bearing himself to you as awfully truthful as he can be is one form of pure love and devotion. why would he feel compelled to hide things from you? his burdens are your burdens, as much as yours are his. that is because once he has chosen you, that means you have rightfully won his heart, you, his savior, bringing light to his cursed existence.

he never hides anything from you; every blemish, scar, flaw, pain is all his to share with yours. of course, with an expectation you'd smooth it all over with a gentle caress. more than anything, being able to depend on someone like this is a breath of fresh air, a better gift than anything he could have ever asked for. for once, it's not him being dependent on. for once, it is him, laying his heart out and putting his trust all on you, his lovely, lovely darling, and it feels thrilling, makes him feel complete. it's like he's melded himself as one with your very body; each shared secret is one inch closer to being tucked away in the cages of your ribs, under the tender warmth of your beating heart.

and the idea of not being honest with you in totality is scary to him. it would mean that there is this gap between you, an empty void. a space where he's supposed to share with you, but a disconnect in place is causing an imbalance. it ticks him off when you don't reciprocate the honesty he lays out for you as if a skinned carcass, ready to be picked apart and eaten. he wants it to be mutual, one of the same, otherwise he'll think you see him as an inadequate partner, not worthy of your mind. you'll kill him with your tight-lip and coldness.

he'll get on his knees, begging and pleading with his hands shackling your legs still. you can't move, can't push him off as he's permenantly glued himself on the floor, beneath the altar of your body, why do you not trust me? my love, what did i do? can i fix this?

even if you explain to him how suffocating this all is, he'll shake his head, tears in his eyes, chanting disagreements---this can be fixed. you cannot give up yet, just give him your heart, be with him, and all will be well.

don't shut me out, phainon says with gritted teeth. he looks angry as much as he is miserably sad, grieving at the distant look in your eyes. he'll hold your face with both hands, forcing you to stare at him. he doesn't realize how hard he's holding you, doesn't compute how your skin folds and contorts in the heaviness of his hands: don't shut me out. don't kick me away. you need me. i need you. each word comes out like a sharp impale dragged across your skin.

don't bother hiding secrets from phainon. he'll sniff it out like a hungry dog.

Kisses

every waking moment is dedicated in servitude to you. from the very first exhale of a new dawn, he greets you with a kiss. he'll stare at your face till you stir in his arms and say your first hello of the day. then he'll go and eat breakfast with you, finding beauty in the simplicity. all the while, his own hand is always wrapped around yours to the point it's inconvenient, but he'll joke, what is love if not insanity? you don't laugh at that.

then, he'll have to pull away for a while. to go run some errands, but he'll pull all the theatrics to convey his heartbreak. he says he can't spare a minute away from you, wants to climb back into your arms and kiss you until his lungs collapse. you blink and stare at him. but just before he fully disappears, there's a genuine look of guilt painted across his face. a part of him dies each time he has to look back at you, peeking behind his shoulder as you grow more and more distant. and just when you think you're free of him, thirty minutes later, you have five new messages from phainon, five different variations of him saying how much he misses you, when he's barely left the road.

this'll go on for hours until he gets back, the constant texting you nonstop until you're forced to turn off your own device. but the minute you don't respond, he goes into panic. starts wondering where you're off to, by the next hour, he's already concluded horrible conclusions that surround your sudden dissapearence. people around him, if not the entirey of amphoreus at this point, has to hear phainon weep over his lover.

only for him to rush back home and see you've fallen asleep, cocooned in a pile of blankets and fuzzy pillows. his mind goes blank, stops racing, and his heart stills. something bright washes over him, and he walks over to you, kneels by the bedside and wraps his arms around your body, soft against his hardened muscles. his hair tickles you awake, and you're met with the biggest smile, i've missed you, he whispers.

you can't tell if you're still dreaming, you're home early?

i couldn't stop thinking about you.

Yearn

from the very first moment he meets you, he's head over heels. something inexplicable pulls him to you, some kind of intangible tug draws the depths of his soul to yours. a need. and something flashes before his eyes, images of forever with you and it all feels too familair; might be deja vu, but phainon thinks it's all the same. it is destiny.

he stakes you out for the next few weeks, while also making notes on you, and a plan to take you with him. or as he likes to say, make you see the light. until then, it won't be long before you'll formally meet him in flesh, as he fondly calls you his lover through the blinding haze swelling in yours eyes. you can call him insane all you want, but he doesn't budge one bit.

phainon thinks, what is the point of patience when he knows he can easily come and get you? you're right there in front of him, and no one is there to stop him, so why hesitate? why wait still, as if hoping for a perfect opportunity? there's no point when he can go get it with his own hands, and so he will do exactly that.

now, if there are anyone in the way that would make this more difficult than it has to be, phainon is quick to step in and simply eliminate such targets. does he feel guilt? no, if not feeling more guilty, he couldn't get to you faster, couldn't get to you before others had convinced you he is bad for you.

a/n: if you got this far, please consider reblogging w/ tags and commenting (ദ്ദി˙ᗜ˙)!! as said earlier, im pretty sure i'm in some kind of shadowban purgatory, so any support is appreciated! so far, everyone has been very kind to me, ILYSM!

"wha…?" you try to focus your eyes, blinking slowly as you attempt to adjust to the lights. nothing made sense. where were you? what's this place? and…

"ah—!" a sudden, garbled moan escapes your mouth. though confused, you could feel a strange sensation below. as you look down, a familiar, blond hair immediately caught your attention. throughout the entire department, there was only one person with this shade of gold:

aventurine.

your ex-friend.

the one who hates you.

the one now eating you out.

immediately, panic flooded your nerves. you start thrashing, even if weak. "you… what are you doing..?" the words come out of your mouth, muddy. your hands attempt to grab his head away from you, and that's when you realize you can't.

a sinking feeling in your chest makes your heartbeat skip a beat. you shake your arms. from the sound of it, your wrists were bound together by something metallic. your eyes look down, meeting his, pleading and accusatory.

he doesn't stop. he just lifts his gaze, staring. those captivating, odd eyes that haunted you for the past years were now hazy; clouded and unfocused. his hands remain wrapped around your thighs, firm and immovable. his tongue, flat, takes a slow, teasing lick from the bottom to the top, flicking your pearl before moving his face lower and doing it again.

and that was more scary than anything he could have done.

"stop— ah— stop… it…!"

he doesn't stop. even when he lowers his gaze, away from your eyes and to your pussy, he just continues. he licks and licks, slowly, as if savoring it. one dip, then twice; lick again, circling the clit — a delicious, horrifying pattern.

"ha… ha—! get off me—!"

he doesn't stop. even when you start struggling more, the effects of whatever made you like this beginning to wane. your legs flail, but he just tightens his grip and presses them down, stopping you. you can feel his tongue inside you, brushing the walls of your insides before retracting again and flattening over your pussy. the smooth, wet surface of his mouth and the gentle warmth of his breath builds a strange, climbing feeling in your abdomen.

"please…! i… i'm begging you…"

he doesn't stop. even when that feeling rises faster and faster, making you unconsciously thrust your hips closer to his face. he seems to welcome it, as that slow, 'savoring' movements turns intense — desperate. you could feels his tongue swirling around the surface and inside, his lips sucking on your cunt. this man was like a vacuum, stuck to your pussy like it's a holy fountain. the pressure in your abdoment climbs and climbs and climbs and—

"oh god!" 

the pressure snaps. your whole body convulses, a pleasurable warmth consuming your entirety in waves. it rushes through you, from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head. it's strong, dizzying; delicious and appalling at the same time. 

you've never experienced anything like it before.

you've never had thought you'd get it from him.

as the sensation of your high slowly drops down, finally, he stops. your mind, now a bit clearer, ask the one question plaguing your mind. you look towards him — AT him — directly. tears well up in your eyes, brought by both pleasure and the swirling cacophony and various emotions from the past.

you had so many things to say, so many things to ask. but as you open your mouth to voice them, wincing in pain at the hoarseness of your throat from screaming and crying and pleading, he beat you to it. he licks his lips, glistening with your juice. his voice was low and velvety, but unexpectedly loud in the silence of the room.

for once, he finally spoke.

and it's not what you expected.

Have his words ever saved anyone? You don’t know, you don’t know. But it’s so easy, trying to believe they have, letting them embrace you—you in your torn sleeves face against his chest eyes pressed closed lungs gasping for breath. It’s so much easier than breathing, sinking into his arms that hold you like it’s not a sin, like it never has been. Red coats your hands, drips down slowly like sticky syrup and stains the white snow with deep crimson blooms, but you don’t care. You don’t care enough to wipe it away, you don’t care enough to even take a second glance, you don’t care nearly enough to pull away from the man holding you so gently it brings to mind the manner in which you once gathered broken porcelain—patiently, quietly, kindly in spite of the jagged edges that tried so desperately to draw blood, to scar you the way you had them.

(You wonder briefly if that is what you are to him. A broken tea set. A handful of sharp ceramic to discard. An inconvenience that might try to bite.)

Aventurine murmurs more words of comfort into your ear while you lose yourself in shock, runs his hand up and down your back even as clear, hot tears slip from the corners of your eyes and stumble onto his clothes. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of ceasing the movement, least of all for your trembling hands grasping the folds of his coat almost for dear life.

Time itself seems to stop and watch for you two, the kitsune and the human in the snow, because the sky is still white as winter when you finally rise from the bloodstained ground.

Aventurine stands with you, takes your hand and lightly presses your palm against the spot on his chest you’d assume his heart to be. There is a faint beat as if to confirm it. As if to remind you the man in front of you has a heart—inhuman as it may be.

“I’m here,” he tells you. Gently.

But you are not dumb. Not enough to let the warmth in his eyes fool you this time.

You push him away.

“Stop.”

It is entirely possible that, as of now, Aventurine is the monster he is meant to be—but the Aventurine you know, for all his jests, listens when you say stop. The fact he obeys even now gives you a small glimmer of dimmed hope.

Only one thing is certain about the kitsune anymore, it seems; it’s far too late for more of his promises. You’re already kneeling next to the torn body of a man you never loved, wiping the last of your tears away with your sleeve in a haste to make yourself presentable enough to face the one you always will, when you speak again.

“He was my husband, Aventurine.”

You have seen too much blood in one evening to remember how to hide the tremble in your voice.

“A poor excuse for one.”

He isn’t wrong. It was an arranged affair, one in which you had never quite taken to one another—or at least not he to you. Aventurine, ever the admirer of what little skin you let him expose, quickly took note of the small, discolored patches of skin around your form that never seemed to fully fade. You would brush him off every time, putting each bruise down to a different hard fall or clumsy collision, but even you could tell how poorly you lied. The kitsune was more than intelligent enough to connect the dots.

You still remember the look on his face when he first said it out loud—sharp features uncharacteristically soft, slit-pupiled eyes narrowed. It had been spring then; the air warm on your skin and the flora easy on your eyes as you collected the season’s herbs and fruits in your basket. Aventurine trailed behind you like a strangely clingy fox, occasionally helping with citrus too difficult for you to reach. At first glance, one might mistake you for a young couple; at least, if not for Aventurine’s tails.

He’d taken your hand with no warning so as to prevent you from refusing to let him see what he already knew was there. Sharp nails moved carefully to avoid scratching as Aventurine wrinkled your sleeve to expose the wrist beneath, then the elbow, then as far up as the cloth went without stretch. All patched with shades of plum and deep violet.

Unable to bear his gaze any longer, you turned away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You had wanted to answer him. You really did. But there were already tears flowing behind your eyes—he knows, he knows, he knows, why does he always know?—despite all your practice in not letting them gather, and you feared that they would all come spilling if you dared speak the truth. The truth, the truth, the whole truth, that you hadn’t expected a perfect marriage, that you were happy to live and die and walk and sleep alongside any honorable man, that you had long since accepted that man would never be the one you loved the way you loved the kitsune, that you would be all right so long as you could fool yourself into believing he was—but not this. Not this. Not for someone that made your home feel like anything but, that had so little patience for error, that would rather argue with hands than words, that barely let you outside alone for something as simple as picking fruit. You had wanted to tell Aventurine the truth. You would have, if only the truth weren’t that you hadn’t done so already because you had felt ashamed that there was anything to tell at all.

You thought a great many things, but none made it off your tongue.

Aventurine sensed your hesitation winning. He let go, though not without a light (comforting, maybe) squeeze of your hand.

“You know you can trust me.”

But that day feels so, so far from today.

“I was a fool to love you, wasn’t I?” you mutter, wiping that same bloodied hand along the snow.

“No.”

Aventurine settles beside you on the ground.

“No, you weren’t. You deserve so much more than this,” he says, gesturing faintly—to the body or the whole forest, you can’t tell. “You can have so much more than this.”

“All you have to do—” His hand clasps firmly around yours, unafraid of the tremble. The red leaves a faint stain on his perfect skin. “is let me give it to you.”

You don’t believe him and his new, shiny promise. You don’t. But you want so badly to, gods forgive you. It would be so easy. Just once, you want something this easy.

“Aventurine…I…”

“You know I had no intention of it coming to this, but—“ He doesn’t even bother throwing a brief glance at the corpse, already desensitized to it. “We both know you’re better off, no?” There’s unbridled excitement in his tone as he squeezes your hand again. “Now that there’s nothing to stop you from saying goodbye.”

Have you ever been at such a true loss for words? You love Aventurine, with or without all his tricks and bets and masks and facades. You never loved the excuse for a life you had without him. So why does the back of your throat still burn?

“…if we truly were to leave, where would we go?” you finally dare ask, though it’s less a genuine question than a halfhearted attempt to stall. You don’t believe him. You can’t. It’s much too good and neat and delicately wrapped to be true, even coming from a fox you know to seldom fall short of making miracles. Where is the catch? He leads you along with a treat now—but where would you be going but death that makes such a thing necessary? Does it even matter? Part of you wants to go, already, even if only to rid the world of your own weakness.

“Everywhere. Nowhere.” There’s that shine in his eye again; a shimmer not dissimilar to the glint of water in a glass, the kind of beauty reserved for those observant enough to catch it in its tracks. “Anywhere you wished.”

You decide you don’t want to look at it anymore. How unsightly you are, putting your own wants over the rest’s needs. How are you any different than your husband? How can you claim to be better? How can you think yourself deserving of what Aventurine offers? How do you do it? How do you put yourself above him, too? It must have taken time, learning to be selfish. Surely you wouldn’t leave it at this.

“Look at me, [name]. Please.”

But look at you! You are, you are, you are.

“Look at me.”

You flinch instinctively as his hand comes up to your face, a detail not missed but pushed aside as—by the jaw—he turns your face to his.

“Do you remember the day we met?”

Yes you do, yes, you do.

Not unkindly, his lone claw presses hard into the skin of your cheek. A well-practiced grace accompanies the touch; too light to mark, yet just strong enough to feel.

You remember. You remember because it was a winter day just like this one where the cold scraped at your skin like claws of ice plunging itself deep into every crevice it could find with no regard for your time, crying out for joy when it finally succeeded in bringing you down to the cold cold hard white ground, shrieking in pain when a familiar set of claws dragged you from its hold.

Still as warm, almost as desperate then as he is now.

“Yes.”

“Then you remember—”

“It wasn’t an accident,” you begin before the other half of you can stop yourself.

Aventurine blinks.

“You lied. You wanted to kill him.”

You can’t help the slight smile that graces your cold lips, even as you speak of what only a minute ago made you distraught. “I know you did. It was too perfect. It was much too perfect to have happened by chance. You’ve been thinking of today for a long while now, haven’t you?”

So fast you feel a delay in realizing it, you’re pushed to the ground so the ice digs freely into your neck and hands, wrists held down by a weight regretfully greater than your own—still face-to-face with Aventurine, who kneels above. A strangely intimate position, isn’t it?

“I know I have been kind to you, friend, but make no mistake—” From here, you can name almost every color in his irises.

“You need me,” he breathes, so close you can feel the air warm, if only for a moment. “Not the other way around.”

Aventurine is only lying halfway. You may want him, you may love him, you may need him, but you know all too well now that the reason he saved you at all was not one of kindness or spontaneity or even ego, but of the rawest kind of love—desperation.

Since the beginning, he has needed you. Your presence, your thoughts, your voice, your heart, your love, your life.

A simple truth so embarrassing he feels the need to lie about it.

In this moment, lying still and defeated, you think you might finally understand Aventurine.

Even in the best of times, there was always a certain distance to him. A silence, a blankness, a coldness you knew no amount of time could fix.

You understand now that this is what he must have been hiding behind it; the thing above you on four feet more animal than man with its thin, shaking frame and bared fangs that barely fit in its own jaw—all panting lungs and stumbling heartbeat, unable to do anything with its own strength but exert it, unused to facing anything but fear from the creature unlucky enough to wind up beneath it.

He must have thought that if you had seen, you would have been scared. Betrayed, even. He must have assumed it would cut his carefully cultivated rapport in half, maybe even made things messier if it caused you to try running from the terms of your own contract.

He must have been terrified of your face.

But, now that you have seen, you do not feel the need to provoke that fragile fear. You do feel the need to force him into a moment of honesty.

“Kakavasha.”

His face distinctly softens at how the name sounds in your mouth.

“You know I hate it when you lie to me.”

And at that, he seems at a genuine—however brief—loss for words at how light your tone is. At how simple the turn of phrase; you do not demand so much as you request, which gets to him more than an order from anyone (or anything) else could. You can feel the tension defuse as his nose nudges itself into your collarbone, hands losing their grip on your wrists as your beloved does the very last thing you would expect from someone so unexpected; he cries.

The sound of it is not especially loud. Each sob is choked and strangely regular, like he’s not sure how to emit the noise in a way convincingly human.

Which is why you don’t mind when the sobs turn to stifled screams you guess to be a fox’s equivalent, only pulling him closer. His humanity had never been what appealed to you anyway—it had always been, instead, how identical his inhumanity was to yours. So you don’t feel an obligation to rock him back and forth, or say any of the many things you know you should. You just hold him tight, and tell him the only reassurance you believe is true.

“I’m here.”

It must look wrong, embracing a creature wearing the mask of a man with red on his hands, carefully lacing his bloodied fingers in your own. But does it feel right?

You couldn’t look at him, not at first. You couldn’t see anything but the shine of his patient leather shoes, so polished and pristine you could almost see your reflection in them. He was framed in the door of your windowless room by a sharp square of artificial light, burning your weak eyes. You rarely saw the sun, and light always made them hurt.

You could see the shoes of your aunt (heels, a nice three inches, bright red, meant for company) and uncle (loafers, black, simple and stately, meant to impress) just a few inches away from that man. Because you were always looking down, it was a habit to judge the moods and desires of your family by the shoes they wore, and it let you know what sort of company was around.

“I’m sorry, is it hard to see?” His voice was still that low, smooth timber, the same sort of voice one would use with a startled animal.

You only had a few seconds before he nudged your chin up with two fingers, slipping his own sunglasses onto your face. You blinked, the world tinted in a pleasant brown, looking right into the eyes of the man who had stepped into your room. 

His eyes were beautiful, the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. A swirl of luxurious purple and blue, a bright pop of color that you had been starved of all your life. And you felt starved, mouth dry, as you stared into his eyes. These weren’t the sort of beautiful eyes someone like you was meant to behold.

“There,” the man said. He was smiling at you. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice a hoarse, desiccated husk next to this man’s indulgent tones. You cleared your throat, but it hardly helped. You weren’t used to speaking with anyone for long.

“I’m Aventurine, and I’m investing in you, all right?” he said. His fingers were still on your chin, preventing you from looking anywhere but up into his gorgeous eyes. They were gorgeous and also cold, appraising you from every angle, like a jeweler and the uncut gem he’d found. “Consider these glasses a little present. Something you’ll pay me back in the future for.”

“Sir,” your uncle began, somewhere over Aventurine’s shoulder, but Aventurine shushed him, shaking his head.

“Okay,” you whispered, putting as much emphasis into your brittle voice as you were capable of. You had no attachment to your life, no interest in either staying or escaping, but you wanted to follow this man, trap or not. You couldn’t look away from him. “You won’t regret it.”

“Really? I’m looking forward to it,” Aventurine said.

When he held out his free hand to you, you took it. You had little choice either way, you suspected, but it was kind of him to offer the illusion that what you wanted mattered.

—

Your family liked to say that they were born to follow HooH, to serve as THEIR vessel and spread their message until the universe crumbled into dust. They had done so for as long as history had been recorded, and would do so long after.

Since the beginning of the galaxy, when no other god answered their call, they turned to the Equilibrium for comfort and answers in the cold, uncaring cosmos. They established traditions in the name of worship that they carried out for century after century, following HooH with unflinching, unwavering faith. THEIR name was said with reverence and more affection than yours had ever been called. Everything your family did was to maintain Equilibrium, to dedicate themselves to its pursuit.

HooH, in all THEIR glory, had blessed your family. Cursed, you would have said instead. But maybe gods didn’t care about what humans called their actions, and they were all born out of the same indifferent whim. 

In every generation of your family, a pair of twins would be born. One would bring about great prosperity, a blessing in every sense of the word. Fecund soil produced bounty after bounty, rivers never ran dry, and the world was flush with feast and fortune, opportunities knocking on every door. In simpler cases, anyone around them would be blessed with luck, even for the most minor gambles.

The other twin was cursed, a receptacle for pure, unadulterated disaster. Deaths followed in their wake. Lost fortunes, unfulfilled love, unimaginable catastrophes. Tragedies, on scales both global and local. They were the cause of wars, in the worst cases. Minor inconveniences in the better ones, bug infestations and a string of bad luck that made people shun them.

The twins were kept apart from each other, another one of the traditions your family upheld. The blessed twin was honored like a god in their own right, paraded during festivals and ceremonies. The opportunistic and wealthy traveled far and wide just for the chance to kneel at their feet, to partake in some of the blessing HooH imparted.

The cursed one was kept locked up, much like all the ills of the world must be contained. You’ve never met your blessed twin, the luckier of you two, but you’ve always envied them whenever your thoughts did turn to your other half. 

Your destiny was to stay in your small room, trapped in the same place, day after day. But your family wasn’t unnecessarily cruel. Your room was comfortably furnished, and you never wanted for anything that you requested. Food arrived on trays, contained in plain packages. Electronics stuffed full of movies and a glimpse into the outside world, which always broke after a few months, and could never be fixed again, no matter how you tried. 

In some ways, you understood. No one willingly chased bad luck.

If you were lucky, you might, on occasion, be let out for a particular purpose, dressed in black robes and hooded. Conversations died when you were around, people shuffling away as fast as they could. In much the same way people paid for the blessing of your twin, others paid for your curses.

You were sent out like an executioner for political enemies, jealous lovers, grievances both minor and small. It didn’t matter what, as long as they had the money for it. You didn’t know how your bad luck worked, just that it did. Sometimes it had taken days before anything bad happened. Sometimes, only hours. Sometimes, it happened due to your touch, or gaze, or even just close proximity. But eventually, they would fall prey to the worst fate, their destinies twisted by your hand.

No one who stayed with you had ever been happy. The one servant who tried to befriend you, taking pitying on your condition, fell ill and passed away. Your father insisted on you living a normal life and died not long after, murdered on the street. Your mother never visited and you were not to even think of your twin, and so your uncle and aunt had undertaken your care instead. 

You would only leave that room upon your death, and then the next pair of twins would be born, one of them taking your place.

That was what you understood your fate to be until Aventurine showed up. After escorting you from your room, he shuffled you into a luxurious car as sleek and smooth as silk, smiling as you sat ramrod straight, unable to lean back into the plush interior. It was too comfortable, and you didn’t like that.

He was closer than he necessarily needed to be in the car, but only just so. No parts of your body touched.

“Your family was in debt,” he explained. “They took out enormous amounts of money, did you know that? And one of the corporations they borrowed from was the IPC. I was sent to collect their debt, and they had a few choices to mitigate the damage. You were simply collateral damage from a deal they struck, an asset they traded away, and you’re going to make the money back for them.”

You stared out the window, a bevy of greenery and life you’d only seen in pictures until now blurring around you. There were people out there, smiling families, playful children. Animals, too. Dogs with their tongues lolling and cats with tails wrapped around their paws. You pressed your hand to the cold glass, watching as it all receded pass, the world you’ve never been a part of.

“I’ll bring you bad luck,” you said simply. If he was trying to scare you, then it wouldn’t work; fear meant you had something to lose, something that you valued. But you had nothing. Like he said, you were simply an asset, and a change in ownership didn’t change that.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” You glimpsed Aventurine’s smile in the window, his ghost wavering in the reflection. When you closed your eyes, the mirage of his smile still shimmered in your mind. His smile was perfectly pleasant, but it still felt wrong to you somehow, twisted and a little shallow.

Nothing good could flourish with you, and fortune died in your hands. Only time would tell what sort of curse Aventurine really was.

—

You were shuffled into the Strategic Investment Department as Aventurine’s assistant as soon as you signed your signature on a bunch of forms, eyes skimming over the terms and conditions. It was all a formality, anyways; it wasn’t as if you actually had a choice in what happened to you.

It wasn’t unheard of for people to join the IPC like this, coerced by debt, misfortune, or agents knocking on their door. Your story wasn’t unique, but your position, perhaps, was. Instead of starting at the lowest levels, Aventurine kept you close to his side, gave you a plain, black uniform, a room of your own, and a few other toiletries that you lacked. But these weren’t kindnesses; these were things you were sure he would make you pay him back for, one way or another.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” he said, knocking lightly on your door. 

You never kept your door open or unlocked, not if you could help it. But it was hardly as if you could turn your boss away, so you reluctantly let Aventurine in.

It had only been a few days since you had been traded away from your old life, and your room was as bare and spartan as it had been since you came here, your bed corners tucked neatly in. But it wasn’t as if there was anything you wanted to buy, even if you had any credits for the company store.

In fact, you spent most of your time sitting in your room, staring out the window, waiting for Aventurine to call on you or to give you something to do. Were you allowed to roam the halls of whatever IPC company housing you’d been assigned? Even if you were, there was nowhere for you to go, and the risk you’d run into another person.

“It’s not a promotion if I didn’t earn it,” you said. You still wore the sunglasses he gave you because the bright fluorescent lighting of the IPC burned your eyes.

“Well, you could consider yourself lucky enough to skip having to work your way up the ranks,” he said brightly. “And to earn a position right by my side, too.”

“Did you need anything from me, sir?” you said instead. 

“I wanted to give you a welcoming gift,” he said. Aventurine unveiled a gift from behind his back, a glitzy box wrapped in emerald paper and garnished with a pale silk bow.

He handed it to you, and you methodically tore through it. Inside, there was a bracelet made of green stones, interspersed with concentric circles, rings of light and dark green. It was simple but luxurious, and you rolled each cool bead under your fingers.

“It’s nice,” you said. What did he want from you: subservience, gratitude, obedience? You could play any role, if only he would give you something to go off of.

“It’s malachite,” he said. “Stones that symbolize transformation. People say they provide protection by absorbing negative energy, but it can absorb positive energy, too. So it really depends on what you put into it.”

“That’s fascinating, sir.”

“Please, call me Aventurine. There’s no need for that. We’re friends, you know. You don’t need to be so polite.” He smiled at you.

“All right, Aventurine,” you said. It felt wrong to call him by his first name when he was your boss, but if he wanted you to do that, who were you to refuse?

“And I have another gift for you, too, if you want to accept it.” You hold out your hand, but Aventurine shakes his head. “No, no. It’s not a physical one. It’s a name.”

“A name?”

“Yes. I was given one, you know, when I joined the Stonehearts. I was thinking it was only fitting to celebrate your new beginning.”

“I’m not a Stoneheart. I don’t know if that’s appropriate for me to try to act like I’m one of them.”

“But you’re not. It’s simply one of my gifts to my new assistant,” he said. 

“What name do you have in mind, Aventurine?”

“Malachite,” he said.

You clenched the bracelet tighter in your hands, stones digging into your palm. “Malachite,” you repeated.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s lovely,” you said. As if you really had a choice. But what did it matter what he called you? You had no sentimental attachment to your name. Whatever he wanted to call you, whatever he wanted to do, however he wanted to use you: none of it mattered.

“Then I’ll see you in the morning, Malachite. You’ll start your duties tomorrow. I’ll come get you, hm? I don’t think you’re too familiar with the building layout yet.”

“I could learn it.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Let me show you around. I’ll see you then.” With a wave of his hand, Aventurine pushed himself off your doorframe and disappeared.

As promised, he did arrive to fetch you in the morning, but even as he walked you through the geometric design of the building, introduced you to the members of his team and your various administrative duties, which included scheduling, event planning. and arranging transportation, you still weren’t sure why he chose you for such a role.

You had no head for numbers, and could barely keep up with the mental games the IPC favored and played amongst themselves. You knew how to keep quiet, read others and their moods, and when to keep your head down, but those were hardly unique qualities in an IPC employee. You weren’t ambitious or cutthroat, either.

There was also the matter of your curse. Aventurine never made mention of it, but you were an asset that had been traded away. There was only one reason he’d ever bother to take you on, only one reason that made sense. But there was no mention of sending you out into the field, of tormenting reluctant debtors or bringing his enemies crashing down. What did he want from you? The question lingered in your mind, a constant pressure like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. 

He didn’t say anything during the first day. Not the day after. And on the third day of juggling documents and picking up coffee for Aventurine, you finally broke your silence.

“It might be better if you had a different assistant,” you said, sleeve riding up as you handed him another sheaf of papers. “I’m not sure why you put me in this position, but I think you should know that it’s not going to work.”

“You wore it,” he said. He was glancing at the bracelet that you usually kept hidden under the sleeve of your uniform. 

“Yes, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about,” you said. “I don’t think I’m suited for this role, Aventurine.”

“Why not? You’re doing perfectly well, working through the debt your family owes.”

“I can pay the debt off in other ways.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Oh? Is that so?” 

“Not like that,” you snapped, cheeks warming at the insinuation. “You know what I mean. I’m bad luck. Things are going to go wrong if you spend enough time with me. Deals will fall through. You’ll lose your position and wealth. Gambles won’t pan off. Deaths, at worst.”

“Bad luck isn’t something I worry about. In fact, I’d welcome it,” Aventurine said. “It’d be interesting to see whose blessing is stronger, don’t you think? Your bad luck or my good luck.”

“What?” Reacting was what he must have wanted, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from flinching, eyebrows knitting together, confusion apparent in your face and voice.

“I’m like your twin,” Aventurine clarified. “Maybe your luck will win out over mine. Or mine over yours. Or maybe nothing will happen, and we’ll live perfectly normal lives. It’d be a balance, don’t you think? A form of equilibrium.”

Your breathing was shallow, and you tried to school your face back into its neutral expression, digging your fingers into your palm hard enough to leave a mark. It made sense that in the vast universe, there would be others like you and your twin, but you had never expected to meet anyone like that. “That’s not possible. You’re taking a risk. I’m dangerous, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“A good gamble isn’t worth anything if I don’t put something on the line. Who knows? Maybe my good luck brought you to me.”

“But what if my bad luck brought you to me?”

Aventurine laughed, a charming, mellow sound. “Then we’ll only know at the end of our partnership who was right. I’m looking forward to seeing where the chips will fall.”

—

Over the weeks, you established your own routine. You regularly reported to Aventurine, and studied in your free time, cramming your head with financial planning and organizational software. You were cordial with your coworkers but avoided them as much as you could, so Aventurine was the only person you truly talked to. You were his assistant, after all, which put you in close proximity to him often.

He was nice to you, and someone else might have been content with that. But you were always waiting for the twist, the moment when things soured, a glimpse into why he was so eager to keep you by his side. He gave you gifts, he looked after you, but he never got any closer than necessary, even if he toed the boundaries of professionalism. You were like a pet project, perhaps. Or some experiment he was awaiting the results for. There was a line he drew between the two of you, and you knew better than to cross it.

Despite your best efforts, inevitably things started to go wrong. Coworkers who chatted with you for a little too long suffered injuries, poor deals, an increase to their debt to the IPC. Machines broke when you were around, coffee machines sputtering death keels and spouting hot water into the air, laptops frying, even spaceships experiencing technical problems that left mechanics scratching their heads. Former business associates turned cold and unfavorable, and Aventurine’s department suffered in its performance.

You could only be thankful that things weren’t worse. These things were minor, containable.

The rumors started after that, and in Aventurine’s small department, it wasn’t hard for news to spread. He kept so few people around him, and had the smallest cohort of all the other Stonehearts. And even if you weren’t forthcoming about the details of your acquisition, any employee of the IPC worth their salt knew how to ferret out hidden information.

You were cursed, bad luck, a source of misfortune. People started to avoid you, and you were grateful. You had known from the start you weren’t meant for the life that other people had, not love, not connection, not even mundane happiness. 

The only person who never seemed affected, though, was Aventurine. In fact, if he joined a deal that your presence soured, he always managed to turn it around. Machines that went on the fritz purred smoothly to life in his presence. Old business partners were swayed into renewing contracts with the IPC again. Everything that went wrong around you went right with him.

And you? You were braced for the worst to happen still.

—

A few months after you joined the IPC, Aventurine requested your presence for a business deal outside of company headquarters. During your conversation, he lounged in his chair, the ankle of one leg casually crossed over his other knee. He was the picture of easy grace and casual power, your boss with his glittering jewelry and his beautiful eyes that served as a spotlight, placing you in the center of a stage with nowhere to hide.

“You won’t have to do much,” he says. “Just stay by my side, help handle some of my reports. You’re my assistant. It’s good for you to see how deals are run. You might have to manage some of your own in the future.”  

You stood in front of him, arms crossed behind your back, fingers clasped together to keep them from trembling. “Aventurine, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Your bad luck again? Don’t worry about that. With me around, nothing will happen.”

“It’s not just that. You have people in this department who would suit the task better than me. I’m still learning the fundamentals of business. I’m not ready for negotiations yet. I’m not even that good with numbers. I wouldn’t be much of an asset.”

“It’ll help with your family’s debt too, you know. The more work, the more you pay it off.”

You shook your head. “My family will be fine. They’ve faced worse, and they’ve always come out the other side.”

“You have such faith in them.”

“It’s not faith. It’s the truth. Everything will always come to a balance in the end. Both misfortunes and fortune never last for them.”

“Can’t you think of it this way? You’re my lovely assistant, and I want you to be by my side. It’ll calm my nerves,” he said. “And you owe me that much, don’t you, Malachite?”

You twisted the bracelet around and around your wrist. You never took it off, even though it felt like a collar, a reminder of your infinite debt to Aventurine and the IPC, a debt which accumulated more and more interest everyday. “...All right,” you said, finally.

If only he would let you work off the debt in the way you thought you would., your bad luck honed as a tool against others. Or perhaps you could have been stuck doing grunt work, sent to the outer reaches of the galaxy to manage small planets and tedious projects with little risk or value. Instead, he kept you close and gave you preferential treatment that you didn’t deserve.

The deal was to take place in a neutral meeting ground, a small waystation that hovered as a transit point for interstellar travelers on their ways to several different planets. It was perfect for a discreet meeting, with people always coming and going. There was an inn, a bathhouse, a general store,  and several small restaurants scattered around.

These were all things you researched and relayed to Aventurine, though it wouldn’t surprise you if he knew the facts already. Still, it made you less nervous as you fed him the information in a low voice on the flight over.

“The client is the leader of a small band of wanderers, who took out a loan from the IPC with 8.2% interest, and has yet to pay it back. The debt has accumulated for nine years now, so it’s now valued at 1,532,145.86 credits…” 

“And what did you find out about the client?”

You shifted through the papers in your lap, briefcase resting at your feet. Aventurine was right next to you, but he was idly flicking a pair of dice through his fingers, but you didn’t believe for a second that he was actually distracted. “Her followers call her Cassandra, and they believe she has unique prophetic abilities, capable of telling the future. I couldn’t confirm if those were true or not, but her followers certainly believe so. And they’ve been evading the IPC for years, so I wonder if it’s true.”

“Well, stranger things have happened, haven’t they, Malachite? But if she could tell the future, then she should have foreseen that ripping off the IPC wasn’t going to end well for her.” He flicked a glance at you. “Ah, but we’re here to ensure it goes off without a hitch, aren’t we? Whatever happens today, don’t disappoint me. I’m counting on you to play your part well.”

The ship juddered to a halt, and without waiting for you, Aventurine leapt out the door, dusting off his clothes with a certain imperious air that you weren’t used to. Now, he wasn’t Aventurine, the man who saved you, but Aventurine, one of the Ten Stonehearts, someone who clawed his way up the corporate ladder and whose very presence demanded respect.

“Don’t wait for me,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll stretch my legs before I head to the meeting point, so make sure you check in for us and meet me there, hm?”

“Aventurine—”

And then he was gone. Aventurine had been capricious before, but he’d never been cruel. And you couldn’t read this as anything other than a little malicious. But who were you to question him? You could do nothing more than pack your papers, pick up your briefcase, and check in at the front desk of the inn, glumly getting your keys and the other logistics in order.

It took a bit of time to drag all your bags through the front door and into your room on the second floor, two beds and tidy but worn furniture greeting you. Aventurine’s luggage was a designer brand without much wear compared to your plain, cheap work-issued bags, but even having something of your own, as disposable as it was, was better than how you were living before. 

It was several minutes later, lost in your musings, when you paused. Your surroundings were unfamiliar, and you had just been letting your feet guide you across the nubby carpet. But where were you? And where was the meeting hall? You had never been the best with directions or open spaces, not when you had been cocooned in a room so small it only took a few paces to reach the other side.

Aventurine had made so many allowances for you already, but not even he could be happy if you were late to a business deal, especially considering how he left you earlier. It would make the IPC look sloppy.

Before panic could fully set in, a gentle hand settled on your shoulder, and a clear, melodious voice chimed, “Oh, my. Are you lost?”

You whirled around, startled, and the woman behind you held up her hands. Vibrant red curls fell around her shoulders like a plume of lava, and she was dressed in a simple pantsuit, with a sleek obsidian sheen.

“No, I’m just… looking for the conference room,” you said, straightening. There was no point in revealing any hint of insecurity or weakness to a stranger.

“I see. I’m also looking for the conference room,” she said, smiling. “I suppose we’re here for the same reason?” 

You tried to keep your face set in a neutral, passive expression. This was just getting worse and worse. “Perhaps so. I’m here on behalf of the IPC for private business.”

“Ah, how funny. I’m here to meet the IPC for private business. You might have heard of me? I’m Cassandra.” 

The woman was watching your reaction, head tilted, smile enigmatic as a prophet’s should have been. “I’m familiar with the name,” you said.

“Why don’t we head to the conference room together? Since we’re here for the same reason.”

Cassandra didn’t give you a single moment to relax before she strided away, as if expecting you’d follow. And what choice did you have? You took off after her, always staying just a step behind. 

“You look awfully young to be a Stoneheart. I’m guessing you’re an assistant?”

“I’m just here for support, ma’am. And I’d rather not say too much before negotiations begin,” you said.

“And clever, too. It’s rude of your boss to leave such a cute employee by their lonesome. But I’ve heard the IPC is tough on their employees, regardless of how skilled they are. It’s a shame how little people are allowed to flourish.”

It was a clear provocation, but for what end? You simply kept your mouth shut and Cassandra didn’t say anything after that. After traversing a flight of stairs and turning down another corner, you reached the room.

The conference room itself was a room the inn rented out for various purposes, and it was nothing more than a few lowset lamps with discolored glass shades and cracked leather couches, a rich, matted purple rug underfoot. This was a room far less luxurious than Aventurine could have chosen for a business deal, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was on purpose to take it in such a shoddy room.

Aventurine was already lounging on the couch, an open bottle of wine in front of him. The stem of a wine glass was caught between two fingers of his fingers, and he tilted it at the two of you.

“Ah, there you two are. I was worried neither of you would show up.”

“Please, Aventurine,” Cassandra said, smiling. “I would never miss a meeting with a Stoneheart such as yourself, not after the charming little messages you’ve been leaving. It’s my pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Aventurine said.

He beckoned with a finger, and you meekly took your place next to his side, Cassandra’s eyes following you all the while. 

There was no need to join the conversation between the two, and so you kept your eyes to the ground and your ears open. All the two did was exchange pleasantries, veiled threats behind sweet words, dancing around what they were really after. Subterfuge after subterfuge: didn’t the two of them get tired of it? Aventurine made no move to include you in the negotiations, and you couldn’t help but wonder what your place here really was. 

There was only a brief respite when a knock sounded on the door, an inn employee poking their head in to say, “Aventurine, sir? There’s a message for you. I hate to interrupt, but it’s urgent.”

Aventurine rose from the couch. “It’s a shame, but I have to respond to this. I’ll be back. Play nice while I’m gone, hm?”

You tried to catch his eyes, your shaking hands clenched tight in your lap, but he didn’t look at you once before he left. 

It was just you and Cassandra now. At some point, she had poured herself a glass of wine, which she sipped until there was nothing but a bloody smear at the bottom. When she picked up the bottle to refill her glass, she tilted it at you in question, but you shook your head vehemently.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“What?” you said, your voice squeaking.

“That was quite cruel of your boss to leave you alone with me.”

“I wouldn’t question his decision like that. He has his reasons.”

“He’s testing you. Does he do it often?”

Her questions were blunt, pointed. More direct than she had been with Aventurine, and you didn’t how you felt. Were you not worth the effort? Or was there something she was trying to needle out of you? She kept such a good poker face you couldn’t tell at all.

“I’m an asset for the IPC,” you said at last. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You could be more than an asset, dear,” Cassandra said. “I think it’s cruel to treat someone so cute so poorly. And unfortunately, I have a fondness for strays.”

“Ma’am—”

“I’m proposing a deal with you,” she said, tilting the glass in your direction, the wine a hypnotic swirl. “He left the room on purpose, you know?”

“This isn’t appropriate.”

“Neither is leaving a rookie alone in the middle of a private deal,” she countered. “But why don’t you think about it? The IPC is going to chew you up and spit you out. Your boss in particular is notorious for his risky dealings, the little gambles he likes to play. And he’s such a perfect lapdog, too, obedient to a fault to the IPC. And it seems like he’s trying to turn you into the same thing. I could offer you a way out, if you chose it. I won’t treat you like a pawn; this is a deal between equals. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

Aventurine saved you, but only to shuffle you from a worse situation to a bad one. Everything you had—from the clothes you wore to the room waiting for you back at company housing—was borrowed. He could take it away from you as easily as he gave it, shove you back to your family as soon as he deemed you useless.

He’d be treating you particularly poorly today, too. For what reasons, you couldn’t fathom, but it had never been your place to question his decisions. 

But why should you be so arrogant as to think you deserved to know what he was thinking? You were nothing more than a tool, an investment and acquisition, so it only made sense for him to treat you as such. Cruelty and indifference was familiar. Kindness was unknown, something that could be taken away at any time. 

At least with Aventurine, you knew where you stood, and he made no illusions about the nature of your relationship. Each transaction was a comfort, and let you know where, exactly, you stood. If that was twisted, then the two of you were twisted together, the rotten roots of a decaying tree.

“It’s kind of you to offer, but I have to refuse,” you said. “I can’t betray Aventurine. I hope you can understand. I still haven’t paid off my debt to him.”

“That’s a shame,” Cassandra said slowly. “I was hoping you’d say yes, and make it easier for all of us involved. But you see, I have no interest in being hounded by the IPC again.”

Two things happened after that, almost simultaneously: flames roared to life around Cassandra, sweat trickling down your face as the room blazed like a sudden inferno, fire trapping you on the couch, and second, a shot ran out, clear as a bell, striking the wall next to Cassandra’s head, flying so close to your face you could feel the heat of it brush by your head, the door kicked open with a sudden force.

“Are you bothering my assistant?” Aventurine said pleasantly, gun cocked in his hand, aimed right at Cassandra’s face, heedless of the flames flickering around him. “I thought I told you to play nice.”

“Well, they were so cute. I couldn’t resist,” Cassandra said. “Were you listening to our conversation? That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you.”

“Ah, what can I say? I was just taking a gamble that seemed to have paid off,” he said, pleasantly. 

“It seems we’re at an impasse, then.” Without taking her eyes off of Aventurine, she spoke to you. “And it seems you, dear, don’t realize what being involved with this man entails for you.”

“Malachite, you should leave now,” Aventurine said. “You’ve already done a great job. I need to discuss things with Ms. Cassandra in private, so if you would be so kind…”

You shook your head, sweat trickling down your spine. “No. I’ll stay.” 

He sighed, and you couldn’t tell if the sound was more regretful or pleased. “All right. If you insist.”

“Oh, Aventurine,” Cassandra said. “And you, Malachite. There’s nothing but tragedy awaiting you two in the future. I can’t see any way this relationship will end happily.”

You didn’t close your eyes, not even as Aventurine’s gun went off one last time and the flames vanished, Cassandra’s body slumping to the floor, a spray of brilliant blood on the wall.

Hands covered your eyes, the soft brush of velvet gloves enveloping your eyelids. Aventurine’s breath was soft and low in your ear. “Don’t look at it for too long,” he murmured. “But you did an excellent job. You’re truly the best assistant I could have asked for.”

“Was this a test, Aventurine?” you said.

He paused, fingers still restraining your vision, a cocoon of luxurious black that felt stiflingly warm. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then it doesn’t. Don’t think about it, Malachite. You played your part well, so you don’t need to worry about anything else.”

Aventurine arranged his post-clean up affairs, IPC workers on standby who swiftly came into the room while Aventurine bribed the innkeeper, flashing a thick stack of credits in his hands. You sat on the edge of your bed in your room, Cassandra’s words ringing in your ears. When you closed your eyes, you could still see the arc of bright blood sinking into the wallpaper, her life extinguished in an instant.

Whose luck was that? Yours, or his?

It haunted you long after her body was disposed of and her group of vagabonds were scattered. Aventurine received glowing praise and commendations. The IPC had collected its debt. A happy ending, for everyone involved.

—

Something in your relationship with Aventurine changed after that fateful business meeting. If it was a test of your loyalty, then you passed with flying colors, because you were greeted with a circus of presents outside your door a week later: a riot of jewelry, brand clothing from labels that even you had heard of, decadent pastries from bakeries with a minimum two hour queue to enter. 

Even Aventurine himself was a touch kinder than you were used to, as if he’d relaxed around your presence. Perhaps he was trying to soothe you after what happened with Cassandra, or he was trying to make up for the slight cruelties from the trip. Or he’d donned a new mask, meant to keep you unsettled and your guard lowered. He praised you for your work ethic, teased you as if you were close friends, and always, always brought you along for his future business deals. 

“My good luck charm,” he said, and you would twist the bracelet on your wrist so tightly it burned your skin.

It was stifling, but it wasn’t as if you hated him. That was the worst part, that there was only one time of the day that you truly enjoyed with Aventurine. Before each workday started, he requested you go into the office early so the two of you could go over the day’s agenda. Steaming mugs of coffee were placed between you, and you would have a moment of quiet before the workrush really began. 

Sometimes, he would say nothing at all. Other times, you would engage in idle chatter. The silence was the most genuine piece of Aventurine you would get. You could flick a glance at him and see all his ease melted into something quiet and serious, a frown marring his face as he thumbed through reports. He looked exhausted, ordinary, and entirely within your reach.

You accepted all his gifts and flattery otherwise, because there was no reason not to. You still wore his sunglasses and his bracelet. Debt piled on debt, his keen eyes watching you with a fervor that felt feverish and strange. What was he thinking?

The one time you refused his gifts, you were overwhelmed by the constant barrage, lacking room to place everything. Aventurine was outside your door with another white gift bag dangling from his fingertips, a souvenir from whatever planet he just visited, when you told him you didn’t want it. Aventurine’s smile dropped, like a curtain sweeping across his face, cutting off a stage spotlight from the audience.

He chucked the sunglasses on your nose, and you tried not to flinch at his touch. “You don’t want this?”

“I’m okay,” you said meekly. “This is enough, Aventurine. I already have so much from you.”

“Is that so? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was overwhelming you. You don’t have to accept this, then.” His gloved hands, velvet and soft as lamb’s skin, cupped your face. “But isn’t there anything else I can do for you? You’ve been such an excellent assistant, and I would hate to see that go unrewarded.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “I’m only doing the bare minimum of what’s required of me.”

A thumb stroked slow circles on your cheek, and you tried not to shiver. Aventurine tilted his face closer towards you, his breath a warm puff against your own lips. “Really? You’re okay? There’s nothing else you want from me?”

Your glance was skittish, eyes darting all over before you finally had the courage to rest on his own eyes. His beautiful purple eyes, the first burst of color you had seen in your life, were glassy and unfocused. Sweat beaded along the angle of his cheek, dampening his neck. He wasn’t focused on you, but on something beyond you, some space and time you couldn’t access, that he would never let you in to.

You jerked away from Aventurine, shoving backwards with so much force you almost stumbled. “I’m fine. I really am, Aventurine! This is enough. Thank you, truly.”

Aventurine swiped a thumb along his bottom lip. “No, I’m sorry, Malachite. I pushed you too far. This isn’t what you wanted out of our relationship, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He vanished before you could say another word. The only thing you could do in that moment was wrap your arms around yourself. You were never destined for relationships with others, so could you know what you wanted, what was right or not? Everything tangled within you, and you didn’t know which end was what.

This was more than you deserved, more than you ever thought you were going to get. How could you ever ask him for anything more? Would Aventurine use this as an excuse to leave you behind, or would he hold it against you, another debt? Aventurine would carve bloody hunks of flesh from his ribs to feed you, and you would have to smile and bear it, knowing he would shove the bill on you later.

For a few days after that, Aventurine was distant. You didn’t hold your early morning meetings. He didn’t contact you beyond the bare minimum and left on distant planet excursions. Just as you wondered if you had hurt him in some way, he came back with smiles and more gifts, as if your previous interaction had only been a bad dream.

“I’m back, Malachite. Missed me much?” he said. And you loathed to admit it, but you did.

There were also rumors about Aventurine, same as there were about you. Rumors about how he came into the IPC, about what he had done in the past, about the tattoo on his neck. But you tuned those out, walked out the room when he was brought up, changed the subject as soon as you could. Whatever Aventurine’s past was didn’t concern you.

He was a Stoneheart, above your reach and your purview. You’d interacted with his coworkers very little, less than a handful of times. Your most frequent contact was usually Topaz, who asked you about Aventurine’s schedule or location, pestering you to reach him when he wouldn’t respond to her calls. 

Once, it was Jade.

“Oh, you’re Aventurine’s little assistant.”

She was beautiful, but beautiful in the way poison could reflect brilliant colors before it was slipped into a wine glass, or the hypnotic gaze of a snake before its jaws shut around you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A long manicured nail tapped on your desk. A Stoneheart, in person. You could only keep your gaze glued to your papers, your gaze lowered. Out of fear or respect, it didn’t matter. They were both the same thing at the end of the day. “How is he treating you?”

“Very well. I enjoy working with him.”

She still hadn’t moved. “I bet it’s hard to keep up with him. He never makes it easy for his assistants. If you’re ever curious about him, just let me know, hm? I could help you out.”

“For the right price,” you added. “Isn’t that how it works, ma’am?”

“Why, yes. A mutually beneficial transaction for the both of us. It’d give you enough leverage to do something in your relationship, if you wanted. You could be more than a simple assistant. Rise above the ranks. Become a Stoneheart yourself. But to do that, you need information. You’ve never been curious about Aventurine? His name? His past?”

“No. It’s okay, ma’am. I don’t need any of that,” you said firmly. You finally raised your head to meet her eyes, blue and piercing. “It’s not my place. I don’t need to be so close to him, nor do I have any desire to surpass him. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the price of your information.”

Jade only smiled. “I understand. But if you’re ever interested in switching departments, please give me a call. I could use someone as smart as you. I’m well familiar with the process of polishing rough gemstones into something beautiful. But you’re quite loyal to him, aren’t you? I hope that it isn’t misplaced.”

—

Fortune was fickle, a weathervane that flipped in the wind, pointing in whatever direction fate guided it to without rhyme or reason. It was something you understood better than most people, and so little surprised you. 

One morning, you showed up and Aventurine wasn’t there. 

Not a surprise in and of itself, but he never missed work. More than that, he was always on time. And if he was held up, he would let you know. None of your other coworkers knew where he was, simply shrugged and said he would turn up when he did.

It wasn’t your place to keep track of him, and if no one else was worried, you didn’t need to be. But as soon as work hours were over, you rushed to Aventurine’s room.

You knew where it was, of course, but you’d never have a reason to visit before now. You didn’t even know if it was his real room, or just a place he stopped by when he had to manage his in-person affairs at the IPC. He was always on the move, Aventurine, and hard to pin down. 

Everyone received company housing, but the Stonehearts had more luxurious places than the grunt workers, which was to be expected. Still, there was something solid and unassuming about his door. It was lonely, too, set so far apart from everyone and everything else.

“Aventurine?” you called softly, knocking once, the rap of your knuckles echoing down the empty hall. No response.

You knocked again, harder this time, knuckles slamming against unyielding metal to the point of pain.

You didn’t have to be here. No one else was worried about him. If he wanted you to know where he was, he would tell you. You shouldn’t step over any lines. You were always so, so good at that. And Aventurine was capricious, fickle, and pushed and pulled at you with equal force, letting you get just shy of close before backing away again, a chasm filled with glittering presents between the two of you. If you walked away now, no one would know.

You pushed the door open. It was unlocked, and swung open silently at your touch, as if it was waiting for you.

The room was dim. The blinds were drawn, and the lights were off. Your eyes were used to weak lighting, though, and you were comfortable in the darkness. There wasn’t much to make out; a few clothes tossed carelessly on the floor and draped across a chair, a plush rug that your feet sank into. There were no decorations, no sign that anyone lived here or stayed for longer than a few days at a time. It was much like your own room, save that his furnishings were more luxurious, but that somehow made the sparseness that much sadder.

You crept closer, towards the bed in the middle of the room, knees bumping against the frame. Aventurine was twisted within its silk sheets, slick with sweat, eyes closed.

“Aventurine?” you whispered.

He moaned, a low, pained sound, like that of a trapped animal.

You reached out to touch him, but he jerked back as if on instinct. Your hand hovered uselessly in the air before you let it drop. His movement had shifted the sheets, revealing bandages wrapped around his torso, blood seeping through, bright blooms that stood out even in the darkness. 

“What happened, Aventurine?” you asked.

He didn’t respond. It was a mission, of some kind, most likely. Private Stoneheart business, or a deal gone wrong. But what happened didn’t matter so much as the fact that he was hurt. He had no honeyed words or facade left, just a pale, vulnerable body curled up in the dark by himself, trusting no one and nothing to come save him. Was he just planning on laying here until he healed, brushing off his absence with excuses? This was the most honest he had been with you, and it wasn’t even by his own violation.

For the next few hours, you brought him water, fruit, and soup. Cold towels, painkillers, and new bandages. You waited on the edge of the bed until he stopped flinching when you approached, when he cracked open his eyes, feverish and unfocused, to see you. Stray, golden hairs damp with sweat curled around his forehead.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. 

“I know.”

But now that he saw it was you, he let you coax warm soup into his mouth, catching whatever dribbled down his chin. You wiped away the sweat and pressed cold compresses to his forehead. You gave him painkillers and he shook his head, and so you placed them back on his bedside without a word.

It was thankless work, with supplies heedlessly bought from with your own money, credits that you would toil to earn once again. You passed time in this quiet, warm room with Aventurine, sleeves rolled up to your elbows as you changed his blood soaked bandages, revealing raw skin stitched and bleeding over a bullet wound, the wound low on his abdomen.

It was brutal work, what marred his skin, clearly meant to hurt, but you couldn’t look away. Nor could you stop from noticing that his back bore traces of old scars, silvery, tough flesh. More secrets, more things that you could ask about but would not. 

When his bandages were exchanged for a fresh pair and you had wiped away all the sweat again, Aventurine reached out a weak hand, tapping the bridge of the sunglasses on your face.

“You’re still wearing these.”

“They help my eyes.”

He laughed, a weak, dry sound, wind rustling through dead grass. “You could have bought better ones. What are you after, here? The Stoneheart position? Another promotion? A transfer, even? Jade says she likes her work.”

“No,” you said. “I won’t ask for more than what I have.”

“You can,” he pressed. “Are you afraid your luck will take it away? As long as I’m here, it won’t—”

“Maybe I did this to you,” you interrupted. “Have you considered that? Your luck has run out with me around.”

“So? What if it did?” Aventurine said. He propped himself up on his elbows, purple eyes intense as they bore into you. “That’s what I’ve been hoping for, Malachite. That your curse is stronger than mine.”

You sucked in a breath, then let it out. This was the heart of the matter, the truth of why he let you stay by his side, the answer you’ve been wondering all this time. He was after your curse after all, but not in a way that most people were. “You’d like my curse to affect you, wouldn’t it? That’s cruel of you, Aventurine. Maybe I was wrong, and I was the one cursed with you. You’re my bad luck.”

“Then isn’t that great? The universe’s most lucky and least lucky people are stuck together.”

“I changed my mind,” you said. You weren’t sure what emotions boiled in you. Anger? Happiness? Resentment? It pooled into one cavernous want, dark and bottomless, the same thing you felt when you first saw him. “I do want something from you. Tell me your name, Aventurine.”

“Who’s cruel now?” he murmured. Still, you didn’t pull away as he brought himself closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and fevered. “It’s Kakavasha.”

“Kakavasha,” you said, rolling the name around in your mouth like a pearl. “Kakavasha.”

“Are we even now? Don’t wear the name out, Malachite.”

“Not at all,” you said. “But this does balance the scales slightly.”

“Does it now? Being by my side won’t bring you much benefit, as you can see.”

“Neither does staying by mine, but you should know that I owe you a debt, so I’m stuck with you,” you said. 

“Oh?”

“And that means you’re stuck with me, too.”

Carefully, as if you were still approaching a cornered animal, you reached out a hand to Aventurine, twining your hands together. Your grip was loose, tenuous. His fingertips were cold, but the solid weight of it felt like a burning sun, his sweaty palm pressed against yours. He didn’t pull away, and that was enough.

There was nothing in the world you owned. You were cursed, and you could never have an ordinary life or a happy future. But you would grasp onto the things you wanted so tightly that nothing else could tear them away, no matter how selfish it was, no matter who got hurt. Because that was how people like you and him survived in this world.

“I’m taking a gamble on you,” you whispered. “So don’t disappoint me, Kakavasha.”

You couldn’t look at him, not at first. You couldn’t see anything but the shine of his patient leather shoes, so polished and pristine you could almost see your reflection in them. He was framed in the door of your windowless room by a sharp square of artificial light, burning your weak eyes. You rarely saw the sun, and light always made them hurt.

You could see the shoes of your aunt (heels, a nice three inches, bright red, meant for company) and uncle (loafers, black, simple and stately, meant to impress) just a few inches away from that man. Because you were always looking down, it was a habit to judge the moods and desires of your family by the shoes they wore, and it let you know what sort of company was around.

“I’m sorry, is it hard to see?” His voice was still that low, smooth timber, the same sort of voice one would use with a startled animal.

You only had a few seconds before he nudged your chin up with two fingers, slipping his own sunglasses onto your face. You blinked, the world tinted in a pleasant brown, looking right into the eyes of the man who had stepped into your room. 

His eyes were beautiful, the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. A swirl of luxurious purple and blue, a bright pop of color that you had been starved of all your life. And you felt starved, mouth dry, as you stared into his eyes. These weren’t the sort of beautiful eyes someone like you was meant to behold.

“There,” the man said. He was smiling at you. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice a hoarse, desiccated husk next to this man’s indulgent tones. You cleared your throat, but it hardly helped. You weren’t used to speaking with anyone for long.

“I’m Aventurine, and I’m investing in you, all right?” he said. His fingers were still on your chin, preventing you from looking anywhere but up into his gorgeous eyes. They were gorgeous and also cold, appraising you from every angle, like a jeweler and the uncut gem he’d found. “Consider these glasses a little present. Something you’ll pay me back in the future for.”

“Sir,” your uncle began, somewhere over Aventurine’s shoulder, but Aventurine shushed him, shaking his head.

“Okay,” you whispered, putting as much emphasis into your brittle voice as you were capable of. You had no attachment to your life, no interest in either staying or escaping, but you wanted to follow this man, trap or not. You couldn’t look away from him. “You won’t regret it.”

“Really? I’m looking forward to it,” Aventurine said.

When he held out his free hand to you, you took it. You had little choice either way, you suspected, but it was kind of him to offer the illusion that what you wanted mattered.

—

Your family liked to say that they were born to follow HooH, to serve as THEIR vessel and spread their message until the universe crumbled into dust. They had done so for as long as history had been recorded, and would do so long after.

Since the beginning of the galaxy, when no other god answered their call, they turned to the Equilibrium for comfort and answers in the cold, uncaring cosmos. They established traditions in the name of worship that they carried out for century after century, following HooH with unflinching, unwavering faith. THEIR name was said with reverence and more affection than yours had ever been called. Everything your family did was to maintain Equilibrium, to dedicate themselves to its pursuit.

HooH, in all THEIR glory, had blessed your family. Cursed, you would have said instead. But maybe gods didn’t care about what humans called their actions, and they were all born out of the same indifferent whim. 

In every generation of your family, a pair of twins would be born. One would bring about great prosperity, a blessing in every sense of the word. Fecund soil produced bounty after bounty, rivers never ran dry, and the world was flush with feast and fortune, opportunities knocking on every door. In simpler cases, anyone around them would be blessed with luck, even for the most minor gambles.

The other twin was cursed, a receptacle for pure, unadulterated disaster. Deaths followed in their wake. Lost fortunes, unfulfilled love, unimaginable catastrophes. Tragedies, on scales both global and local. They were the cause of wars, in the worst cases. Minor inconveniences in the better ones, bug infestations and a string of bad luck that made people shun them.

The twins were kept apart from each other, another one of the traditions your family upheld. The blessed twin was honored like a god in their own right, paraded during festivals and ceremonies. The opportunistic and wealthy traveled far and wide just for the chance to kneel at their feet, to partake in some of the blessing HooH imparted.

The cursed one was kept locked up, much like all the ills of the world must be contained. You’ve never met your blessed twin, the luckier of you two, but you’ve always envied them whenever your thoughts did turn to your other half. 

Your destiny was to stay in your small room, trapped in the same place, day after day. But your family wasn’t unnecessarily cruel. Your room was comfortably furnished, and you never wanted for anything that you requested. Food arrived on trays, contained in plain packages. Electronics stuffed full of movies and a glimpse into the outside world, which always broke after a few months, and could never be fixed again, no matter how you tried. 

In some ways, you understood. No one willingly chased bad luck.

If you were lucky, you might, on occasion, be let out for a particular purpose, dressed in black robes and hooded. Conversations died when you were around, people shuffling away as fast as they could. In much the same way people paid for the blessing of your twin, others paid for your curses.

You were sent out like an executioner for political enemies, jealous lovers, grievances both minor and small. It didn’t matter what, as long as they had the money for it. You didn’t know how your bad luck worked, just that it did. Sometimes it had taken days before anything bad happened. Sometimes, only hours. Sometimes, it happened due to your touch, or gaze, or even just close proximity. But eventually, they would fall prey to the worst fate, their destinies twisted by your hand.

No one who stayed with you had ever been happy. The one servant who tried to befriend you, taking pitying on your condition, fell ill and passed away. Your father insisted on you living a normal life and died not long after, murdered on the street. Your mother never visited and you were not to even think of your twin, and so your uncle and aunt had undertaken your care instead. 

You would only leave that room upon your death, and then the next pair of twins would be born, one of them taking your place.

That was what you understood your fate to be until Aventurine showed up. After escorting you from your room, he shuffled you into a luxurious car as sleek and smooth as silk, smiling as you sat ramrod straight, unable to lean back into the plush interior. It was too comfortable, and you didn’t like that.

He was closer than he necessarily needed to be in the car, but only just so. No parts of your body touched.

“Your family was in debt,” he explained. “They took out enormous amounts of money, did you know that? And one of the corporations they borrowed from was the IPC. I was sent to collect their debt, and they had a few choices to mitigate the damage. You were simply collateral damage from a deal they struck, an asset they traded away, and you’re going to make the money back for them.”

You stared out the window, a bevy of greenery and life you’d only seen in pictures until now blurring around you. There were people out there, smiling families, playful children. Animals, too. Dogs with their tongues lolling and cats with tails wrapped around their paws. You pressed your hand to the cold glass, watching as it all receded pass, the world you’ve never been a part of.

“I’ll bring you bad luck,” you said simply. If he was trying to scare you, then it wouldn’t work; fear meant you had something to lose, something that you valued. But you had nothing. Like he said, you were simply an asset, and a change in ownership didn’t change that.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” You glimpsed Aventurine’s smile in the window, his ghost wavering in the reflection. When you closed your eyes, the mirage of his smile still shimmered in your mind. His smile was perfectly pleasant, but it still felt wrong to you somehow, twisted and a little shallow.

Nothing good could flourish with you, and fortune died in your hands. Only time would tell what sort of curse Aventurine really was.

—

You were shuffled into the Strategic Investment Department as Aventurine’s assistant as soon as you signed your signature on a bunch of forms, eyes skimming over the terms and conditions. It was all a formality, anyways; it wasn’t as if you actually had a choice in what happened to you.

It wasn’t unheard of for people to join the IPC like this, coerced by debt, misfortune, or agents knocking on their door. Your story wasn’t unique, but your position, perhaps, was. Instead of starting at the lowest levels, Aventurine kept you close to his side, gave you a plain, black uniform, a room of your own, and a few other toiletries that you lacked. But these weren’t kindnesses; these were things you were sure he would make you pay him back for, one way or another.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” he said, knocking lightly on your door. 

You never kept your door open or unlocked, not if you could help it. But it was hardly as if you could turn your boss away, so you reluctantly let Aventurine in.

It had only been a few days since you had been traded away from your old life, and your room was as bare and spartan as it had been since you came here, your bed corners tucked neatly in. But it wasn’t as if there was anything you wanted to buy, even if you had any credits for the company store.

In fact, you spent most of your time sitting in your room, staring out the window, waiting for Aventurine to call on you or to give you something to do. Were you allowed to roam the halls of whatever IPC company housing you’d been assigned? Even if you were, there was nowhere for you to go, and the risk you’d run into another person.

“It’s not a promotion if I didn’t earn it,” you said. You still wore the sunglasses he gave you because the bright fluorescent lighting of the IPC burned your eyes.

“Well, you could consider yourself lucky enough to skip having to work your way up the ranks,” he said brightly. “And to earn a position right by my side, too.”

“Did you need anything from me, sir?” you said instead. 

“I wanted to give you a welcoming gift,” he said. Aventurine unveiled a gift from behind his back, a glitzy box wrapped in emerald paper and garnished with a pale silk bow.

He handed it to you, and you methodically tore through it. Inside, there was a bracelet made of green stones, interspersed with concentric circles, rings of light and dark green. It was simple but luxurious, and you rolled each cool bead under your fingers.

“It’s nice,” you said. What did he want from you: subservience, gratitude, obedience? You could play any role, if only he would give you something to go off of.

“It’s malachite,” he said. “Stones that symbolize transformation. People say they provide protection by absorbing negative energy, but it can absorb positive energy, too. So it really depends on what you put into it.”

“That’s fascinating, sir.”

“Please, call me Aventurine. There’s no need for that. We’re friends, you know. You don’t need to be so polite.” He smiled at you.

“All right, Aventurine,” you said. It felt wrong to call him by his first name when he was your boss, but if he wanted you to do that, who were you to refuse?

“And I have another gift for you, too, if you want to accept it.” You hold out your hand, but Aventurine shakes his head. “No, no. It’s not a physical one. It’s a name.”

“A name?”

“Yes. I was given one, you know, when I joined the Stonehearts. I was thinking it was only fitting to celebrate your new beginning.”

“I’m not a Stoneheart. I don’t know if that’s appropriate for me to try to act like I’m one of them.”

“But you’re not. It’s simply one of my gifts to my new assistant,” he said. 

“What name do you have in mind, Aventurine?”

“Malachite,” he said.

You clenched the bracelet tighter in your hands, stones digging into your palm. “Malachite,” you repeated.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s lovely,” you said. As if you really had a choice. But what did it matter what he called you? You had no sentimental attachment to your name. Whatever he wanted to call you, whatever he wanted to do, however he wanted to use you: none of it mattered.

“Then I’ll see you in the morning, Malachite. You’ll start your duties tomorrow. I’ll come get you, hm? I don’t think you’re too familiar with the building layout yet.”

“I could learn it.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Let me show you around. I’ll see you then.” With a wave of his hand, Aventurine pushed himself off your doorframe and disappeared.

As promised, he did arrive to fetch you in the morning, but even as he walked you through the geometric design of the building, introduced you to the members of his team and your various administrative duties, which included scheduling, event planning. and arranging transportation, you still weren’t sure why he chose you for such a role.

You had no head for numbers, and could barely keep up with the mental games the IPC favored and played amongst themselves. You knew how to keep quiet, read others and their moods, and when to keep your head down, but those were hardly unique qualities in an IPC employee. You weren’t ambitious or cutthroat, either.

There was also the matter of your curse. Aventurine never made mention of it, but you were an asset that had been traded away. There was only one reason he’d ever bother to take you on, only one reason that made sense. But there was no mention of sending you out into the field, of tormenting reluctant debtors or bringing his enemies crashing down. What did he want from you? The question lingered in your mind, a constant pressure like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. 

He didn’t say anything during the first day. Not the day after. And on the third day of juggling documents and picking up coffee for Aventurine, you finally broke your silence.

“It might be better if you had a different assistant,” you said, sleeve riding up as you handed him another sheaf of papers. “I’m not sure why you put me in this position, but I think you should know that it’s not going to work.”

“You wore it,” he said. He was glancing at the bracelet that you usually kept hidden under the sleeve of your uniform. 

“Yes, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about,” you said. “I don’t think I’m suited for this role, Aventurine.”

“Why not? You’re doing perfectly well, working through the debt your family owes.”

“I can pay the debt off in other ways.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Oh? Is that so?” 

“Not like that,” you snapped, cheeks warming at the insinuation. “You know what I mean. I’m bad luck. Things are going to go wrong if you spend enough time with me. Deals will fall through. You’ll lose your position and wealth. Gambles won’t pan off. Deaths, at worst.”

“Bad luck isn’t something I worry about. In fact, I’d welcome it,” Aventurine said. “It’d be interesting to see whose blessing is stronger, don’t you think? Your bad luck or my good luck.”

“What?” Reacting was what he must have wanted, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from flinching, eyebrows knitting together, confusion apparent in your face and voice.

“I’m like your twin,” Aventurine clarified. “Maybe your luck will win out over mine. Or mine over yours. Or maybe nothing will happen, and we’ll live perfectly normal lives. It’d be a balance, don’t you think? A form of equilibrium.”

Your breathing was shallow, and you tried to school your face back into its neutral expression, digging your fingers into your palm hard enough to leave a mark. It made sense that in the vast universe, there would be others like you and your twin, but you had never expected to meet anyone like that. “That’s not possible. You’re taking a risk. I’m dangerous, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“A good gamble isn’t worth anything if I don’t put something on the line. Who knows? Maybe my good luck brought you to me.”

“But what if my bad luck brought you to me?”

Aventurine laughed, a charming, mellow sound. “Then we’ll only know at the end of our partnership who was right. I’m looking forward to seeing where the chips will fall.”

—

Over the weeks, you established your own routine. You regularly reported to Aventurine, and studied in your free time, cramming your head with financial planning and organizational software. You were cordial with your coworkers but avoided them as much as you could, so Aventurine was the only person you truly talked to. You were his assistant, after all, which put you in close proximity to him often.

He was nice to you, and someone else might have been content with that. But you were always waiting for the twist, the moment when things soured, a glimpse into why he was so eager to keep you by his side. He gave you gifts, he looked after you, but he never got any closer than necessary, even if he toed the boundaries of professionalism. You were like a pet project, perhaps. Or some experiment he was awaiting the results for. There was a line he drew between the two of you, and you knew better than to cross it.

Despite your best efforts, inevitably things started to go wrong. Coworkers who chatted with you for a little too long suffered injuries, poor deals, an increase to their debt to the IPC. Machines broke when you were around, coffee machines sputtering death keels and spouting hot water into the air, laptops frying, even spaceships experiencing technical problems that left mechanics scratching their heads. Former business associates turned cold and unfavorable, and Aventurine’s department suffered in its performance.

You could only be thankful that things weren’t worse. These things were minor, containable.

The rumors started after that, and in Aventurine’s small department, it wasn’t hard for news to spread. He kept so few people around him, and had the smallest cohort of all the other Stonehearts. And even if you weren’t forthcoming about the details of your acquisition, any employee of the IPC worth their salt knew how to ferret out hidden information.

You were cursed, bad luck, a source of misfortune. People started to avoid you, and you were grateful. You had known from the start you weren’t meant for the life that other people had, not love, not connection, not even mundane happiness. 

The only person who never seemed affected, though, was Aventurine. In fact, if he joined a deal that your presence soured, he always managed to turn it around. Machines that went on the fritz purred smoothly to life in his presence. Old business partners were swayed into renewing contracts with the IPC again. Everything that went wrong around you went right with him.

And you? You were braced for the worst to happen still.

—

A few months after you joined the IPC, Aventurine requested your presence for a business deal outside of company headquarters. During your conversation, he lounged in his chair, the ankle of one leg casually crossed over his other knee. He was the picture of easy grace and casual power, your boss with his glittering jewelry and his beautiful eyes that served as a spotlight, placing you in the center of a stage with nowhere to hide.

“You won’t have to do much,” he says. “Just stay by my side, help handle some of my reports. You’re my assistant. It’s good for you to see how deals are run. You might have to manage some of your own in the future.”  

You stood in front of him, arms crossed behind your back, fingers clasped together to keep them from trembling. “Aventurine, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Your bad luck again? Don’t worry about that. With me around, nothing will happen.”

“It’s not just that. You have people in this department who would suit the task better than me. I’m still learning the fundamentals of business. I’m not ready for negotiations yet. I’m not even that good with numbers. I wouldn’t be much of an asset.”

“It’ll help with your family’s debt too, you know. The more work, the more you pay it off.”

You shook your head. “My family will be fine. They’ve faced worse, and they’ve always come out the other side.”

“You have such faith in them.”

“It’s not faith. It’s the truth. Everything will always come to a balance in the end. Both misfortunes and fortune never last for them.”

“Can’t you think of it this way? You’re my lovely assistant, and I want you to be by my side. It’ll calm my nerves,” he said. “And you owe me that much, don’t you, Malachite?”

You twisted the bracelet around and around your wrist. You never took it off, even though it felt like a collar, a reminder of your infinite debt to Aventurine and the IPC, a debt which accumulated more and more interest everyday. “...All right,” you said, finally.

If only he would let you work off the debt in the way you thought you would., your bad luck honed as a tool against others. Or perhaps you could have been stuck doing grunt work, sent to the outer reaches of the galaxy to manage small planets and tedious projects with little risk or value. Instead, he kept you close and gave you preferential treatment that you didn’t deserve.

The deal was to take place in a neutral meeting ground, a small waystation that hovered as a transit point for interstellar travelers on their ways to several different planets. It was perfect for a discreet meeting, with people always coming and going. There was an inn, a bathhouse, a general store,  and several small restaurants scattered around.

These were all things you researched and relayed to Aventurine, though it wouldn’t surprise you if he knew the facts already. Still, it made you less nervous as you fed him the information in a low voice on the flight over.

“The client is the leader of a small band of wanderers, who took out a loan from the IPC with 8.2% interest, and has yet to pay it back. The debt has accumulated for nine years now, so it’s now valued at 1,532,145.86 credits…” 

“And what did you find out about the client?”

You shifted through the papers in your lap, briefcase resting at your feet. Aventurine was right next to you, but he was idly flicking a pair of dice through his fingers, but you didn’t believe for a second that he was actually distracted. “Her followers call her Cassandra, and they believe she has unique prophetic abilities, capable of telling the future. I couldn’t confirm if those were true or not, but her followers certainly believe so. And they’ve been evading the IPC for years, so I wonder if it’s true.”

“Well, stranger things have happened, haven’t they, Malachite? But if she could tell the future, then she should have foreseen that ripping off the IPC wasn’t going to end well for her.” He flicked a glance at you. “Ah, but we’re here to ensure it goes off without a hitch, aren’t we? Whatever happens today, don’t disappoint me. I’m counting on you to play your part well.”

The ship juddered to a halt, and without waiting for you, Aventurine leapt out the door, dusting off his clothes with a certain imperious air that you weren’t used to. Now, he wasn’t Aventurine, the man who saved you, but Aventurine, one of the Ten Stonehearts, someone who clawed his way up the corporate ladder and whose very presence demanded respect.

“Don’t wait for me,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll stretch my legs before I head to the meeting point, so make sure you check in for us and meet me there, hm?”

“Aventurine—”

And then he was gone. Aventurine had been capricious before, but he’d never been cruel. And you couldn’t read this as anything other than a little malicious. But who were you to question him? You could do nothing more than pack your papers, pick up your briefcase, and check in at the front desk of the inn, glumly getting your keys and the other logistics in order.

It took a bit of time to drag all your bags through the front door and into your room on the second floor, two beds and tidy but worn furniture greeting you. Aventurine’s luggage was a designer brand without much wear compared to your plain, cheap work-issued bags, but even having something of your own, as disposable as it was, was better than how you were living before. 

It was several minutes later, lost in your musings, when you paused. Your surroundings were unfamiliar, and you had just been letting your feet guide you across the nubby carpet. But where were you? And where was the meeting hall? You had never been the best with directions or open spaces, not when you had been cocooned in a room so small it only took a few paces to reach the other side.

Aventurine had made so many allowances for you already, but not even he could be happy if you were late to a business deal, especially considering how he left you earlier. It would make the IPC look sloppy.

Before panic could fully set in, a gentle hand settled on your shoulder, and a clear, melodious voice chimed, “Oh, my. Are you lost?”

You whirled around, startled, and the woman behind you held up her hands. Vibrant red curls fell around her shoulders like a plume of lava, and she was dressed in a simple pantsuit, with a sleek obsidian sheen.

“No, I’m just… looking for the conference room,” you said, straightening. There was no point in revealing any hint of insecurity or weakness to a stranger.

“I see. I’m also looking for the conference room,” she said, smiling. “I suppose we’re here for the same reason?” 

You tried to keep your face set in a neutral, passive expression. This was just getting worse and worse. “Perhaps so. I’m here on behalf of the IPC for private business.”

“Ah, how funny. I’m here to meet the IPC for private business. You might have heard of me? I’m Cassandra.” 

The woman was watching your reaction, head tilted, smile enigmatic as a prophet’s should have been. “I’m familiar with the name,” you said.

“Why don’t we head to the conference room together? Since we’re here for the same reason.”

Cassandra didn’t give you a single moment to relax before she strided away, as if expecting you’d follow. And what choice did you have? You took off after her, always staying just a step behind. 

“You look awfully young to be a Stoneheart. I’m guessing you’re an assistant?”

“I’m just here for support, ma’am. And I’d rather not say too much before negotiations begin,” you said.

“And clever, too. It’s rude of your boss to leave such a cute employee by their lonesome. But I’ve heard the IPC is tough on their employees, regardless of how skilled they are. It’s a shame how little people are allowed to flourish.”

It was a clear provocation, but for what end? You simply kept your mouth shut and Cassandra didn’t say anything after that. After traversing a flight of stairs and turning down another corner, you reached the room.

The conference room itself was a room the inn rented out for various purposes, and it was nothing more than a few lowset lamps with discolored glass shades and cracked leather couches, a rich, matted purple rug underfoot. This was a room far less luxurious than Aventurine could have chosen for a business deal, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was on purpose to take it in such a shoddy room.

Aventurine was already lounging on the couch, an open bottle of wine in front of him. The stem of a wine glass was caught between two fingers of his fingers, and he tilted it at the two of you.

“Ah, there you two are. I was worried neither of you would show up.”

“Please, Aventurine,” Cassandra said, smiling. “I would never miss a meeting with a Stoneheart such as yourself, not after the charming little messages you’ve been leaving. It’s my pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Aventurine said.

He beckoned with a finger, and you meekly took your place next to his side, Cassandra’s eyes following you all the while. 

There was no need to join the conversation between the two, and so you kept your eyes to the ground and your ears open. All the two did was exchange pleasantries, veiled threats behind sweet words, dancing around what they were really after. Subterfuge after subterfuge: didn’t the two of them get tired of it? Aventurine made no move to include you in the negotiations, and you couldn’t help but wonder what your place here really was. 

There was only a brief respite when a knock sounded on the door, an inn employee poking their head in to say, “Aventurine, sir? There’s a message for you. I hate to interrupt, but it’s urgent.”

Aventurine rose from the couch. “It’s a shame, but I have to respond to this. I’ll be back. Play nice while I’m gone, hm?”

You tried to catch his eyes, your shaking hands clenched tight in your lap, but he didn’t look at you once before he left. 

It was just you and Cassandra now. At some point, she had poured herself a glass of wine, which she sipped until there was nothing but a bloody smear at the bottom. When she picked up the bottle to refill her glass, she tilted it at you in question, but you shook your head vehemently.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“What?” you said, your voice squeaking.

“That was quite cruel of your boss to leave you alone with me.”

“I wouldn’t question his decision like that. He has his reasons.”

“He’s testing you. Does he do it often?”

Her questions were blunt, pointed. More direct than she had been with Aventurine, and you didn’t how you felt. Were you not worth the effort? Or was there something she was trying to needle out of you? She kept such a good poker face you couldn’t tell at all.

“I’m an asset for the IPC,” you said at last. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You could be more than an asset, dear,” Cassandra said. “I think it’s cruel to treat someone so cute so poorly. And unfortunately, I have a fondness for strays.”

“Ma’am—”

“I’m proposing a deal with you,” she said, tilting the glass in your direction, the wine a hypnotic swirl. “He left the room on purpose, you know?”

“This isn’t appropriate.”

“Neither is leaving a rookie alone in the middle of a private deal,” she countered. “But why don’t you think about it? The IPC is going to chew you up and spit you out. Your boss in particular is notorious for his risky dealings, the little gambles he likes to play. And he’s such a perfect lapdog, too, obedient to a fault to the IPC. And it seems like he’s trying to turn you into the same thing. I could offer you a way out, if you chose it. I won’t treat you like a pawn; this is a deal between equals. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

Aventurine saved you, but only to shuffle you from a worse situation to a bad one. Everything you had—from the clothes you wore to the room waiting for you back at company housing—was borrowed. He could take it away from you as easily as he gave it, shove you back to your family as soon as he deemed you useless.

He’d be treating you particularly poorly today, too. For what reasons, you couldn’t fathom, but it had never been your place to question his decisions. 

But why should you be so arrogant as to think you deserved to know what he was thinking? You were nothing more than a tool, an investment and acquisition, so it only made sense for him to treat you as such. Cruelty and indifference was familiar. Kindness was unknown, something that could be taken away at any time. 

At least with Aventurine, you knew where you stood, and he made no illusions about the nature of your relationship. Each transaction was a comfort, and let you know where, exactly, you stood. If that was twisted, then the two of you were twisted together, the rotten roots of a decaying tree.

“It’s kind of you to offer, but I have to refuse,” you said. “I can’t betray Aventurine. I hope you can understand. I still haven’t paid off my debt to him.”

“That’s a shame,” Cassandra said slowly. “I was hoping you’d say yes, and make it easier for all of us involved. But you see, I have no interest in being hounded by the IPC again.”

Two things happened after that, almost simultaneously: flames roared to life around Cassandra, sweat trickling down your face as the room blazed like a sudden inferno, fire trapping you on the couch, and second, a shot ran out, clear as a bell, striking the wall next to Cassandra’s head, flying so close to your face you could feel the heat of it brush by your head, the door kicked open with a sudden force.

“Are you bothering my assistant?” Aventurine said pleasantly, gun cocked in his hand, aimed right at Cassandra’s face, heedless of the flames flickering around him. “I thought I told you to play nice.”

“Well, they were so cute. I couldn’t resist,” Cassandra said. “Were you listening to our conversation? That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you.”

“Ah, what can I say? I was just taking a gamble that seemed to have paid off,” he said, pleasantly. 

“It seems we’re at an impasse, then.” Without taking her eyes off of Aventurine, she spoke to you. “And it seems you, dear, don’t realize what being involved with this man entails for you.”

“Malachite, you should leave now,” Aventurine said. “You’ve already done a great job. I need to discuss things with Ms. Cassandra in private, so if you would be so kind…”

You shook your head, sweat trickling down your spine. “No. I’ll stay.” 

He sighed, and you couldn’t tell if the sound was more regretful or pleased. “All right. If you insist.”

“Oh, Aventurine,” Cassandra said. “And you, Malachite. There’s nothing but tragedy awaiting you two in the future. I can’t see any way this relationship will end happily.”

You didn’t close your eyes, not even as Aventurine’s gun went off one last time and the flames vanished, Cassandra’s body slumping to the floor, a spray of brilliant blood on the wall.

Hands covered your eyes, the soft brush of velvet gloves enveloping your eyelids. Aventurine’s breath was soft and low in your ear. “Don’t look at it for too long,” he murmured. “But you did an excellent job. You’re truly the best assistant I could have asked for.”

“Was this a test, Aventurine?” you said.

He paused, fingers still restraining your vision, a cocoon of luxurious black that felt stiflingly warm. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then it doesn’t. Don’t think about it, Malachite. You played your part well, so you don’t need to worry about anything else.”

Aventurine arranged his post-clean up affairs, IPC workers on standby who swiftly came into the room while Aventurine bribed the innkeeper, flashing a thick stack of credits in his hands. You sat on the edge of your bed in your room, Cassandra’s words ringing in your ears. When you closed your eyes, you could still see the arc of bright blood sinking into the wallpaper, her life extinguished in an instant.

Whose luck was that? Yours, or his?

It haunted you long after her body was disposed of and her group of vagabonds were scattered. Aventurine received glowing praise and commendations. The IPC had collected its debt. A happy ending, for everyone involved.

—

Something in your relationship with Aventurine changed after that fateful business meeting. If it was a test of your loyalty, then you passed with flying colors, because you were greeted with a circus of presents outside your door a week later: a riot of jewelry, brand clothing from labels that even you had heard of, decadent pastries from bakeries with a minimum two hour queue to enter. 

Even Aventurine himself was a touch kinder than you were used to, as if he’d relaxed around your presence. Perhaps he was trying to soothe you after what happened with Cassandra, or he was trying to make up for the slight cruelties from the trip. Or he’d donned a new mask, meant to keep you unsettled and your guard lowered. He praised you for your work ethic, teased you as if you were close friends, and always, always brought you along for his future business deals. 

“My good luck charm,” he said, and you would twist the bracelet on your wrist so tightly it burned your skin.

It was stifling, but it wasn’t as if you hated him. That was the worst part, that there was only one time of the day that you truly enjoyed with Aventurine. Before each workday started, he requested you go into the office early so the two of you could go over the day’s agenda. Steaming mugs of coffee were placed between you, and you would have a moment of quiet before the workrush really began. 

Sometimes, he would say nothing at all. Other times, you would engage in idle chatter. The silence was the most genuine piece of Aventurine you would get. You could flick a glance at him and see all his ease melted into something quiet and serious, a frown marring his face as he thumbed through reports. He looked exhausted, ordinary, and entirely within your reach.

You accepted all his gifts and flattery otherwise, because there was no reason not to. You still wore his sunglasses and his bracelet. Debt piled on debt, his keen eyes watching you with a fervor that felt feverish and strange. What was he thinking?

The one time you refused his gifts, you were overwhelmed by the constant barrage, lacking room to place everything. Aventurine was outside your door with another white gift bag dangling from his fingertips, a souvenir from whatever planet he just visited, when you told him you didn’t want it. Aventurine’s smile dropped, like a curtain sweeping across his face, cutting off a stage spotlight from the audience.

He chucked the sunglasses on your nose, and you tried not to flinch at his touch. “You don’t want this?”

“I’m okay,” you said meekly. “This is enough, Aventurine. I already have so much from you.”

“Is that so? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was overwhelming you. You don’t have to accept this, then.” His gloved hands, velvet and soft as lamb’s skin, cupped your face. “But isn’t there anything else I can do for you? You’ve been such an excellent assistant, and I would hate to see that go unrewarded.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “I’m only doing the bare minimum of what’s required of me.”

A thumb stroked slow circles on your cheek, and you tried not to shiver. Aventurine tilted his face closer towards you, his breath a warm puff against your own lips. “Really? You’re okay? There’s nothing else you want from me?”

Your glance was skittish, eyes darting all over before you finally had the courage to rest on his own eyes. His beautiful purple eyes, the first burst of color you had seen in your life, were glassy and unfocused. Sweat beaded along the angle of his cheek, dampening his neck. He wasn’t focused on you, but on something beyond you, some space and time you couldn’t access, that he would never let you in to.

You jerked away from Aventurine, shoving backwards with so much force you almost stumbled. “I’m fine. I really am, Aventurine! This is enough. Thank you, truly.”

Aventurine swiped a thumb along his bottom lip. “No, I’m sorry, Malachite. I pushed you too far. This isn’t what you wanted out of our relationship, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He vanished before you could say another word. The only thing you could do in that moment was wrap your arms around yourself. You were never destined for relationships with others, so could you know what you wanted, what was right or not? Everything tangled within you, and you didn’t know which end was what.

This was more than you deserved, more than you ever thought you were going to get. How could you ever ask him for anything more? Would Aventurine use this as an excuse to leave you behind, or would he hold it against you, another debt? Aventurine would carve bloody hunks of flesh from his ribs to feed you, and you would have to smile and bear it, knowing he would shove the bill on you later.

For a few days after that, Aventurine was distant. You didn’t hold your early morning meetings. He didn’t contact you beyond the bare minimum and left on distant planet excursions. Just as you wondered if you had hurt him in some way, he came back with smiles and more gifts, as if your previous interaction had only been a bad dream.

“I’m back, Malachite. Missed me much?” he said. And you loathed to admit it, but you did.

There were also rumors about Aventurine, same as there were about you. Rumors about how he came into the IPC, about what he had done in the past, about the tattoo on his neck. But you tuned those out, walked out the room when he was brought up, changed the subject as soon as you could. Whatever Aventurine’s past was didn’t concern you.

He was a Stoneheart, above your reach and your purview. You’d interacted with his coworkers very little, less than a handful of times. Your most frequent contact was usually Topaz, who asked you about Aventurine’s schedule or location, pestering you to reach him when he wouldn’t respond to her calls. 

Once, it was Jade.

“Oh, you’re Aventurine’s little assistant.”

She was beautiful, but beautiful in the way poison could reflect brilliant colors before it was slipped into a wine glass, or the hypnotic gaze of a snake before its jaws shut around you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A long manicured nail tapped on your desk. A Stoneheart, in person. You could only keep your gaze glued to your papers, your gaze lowered. Out of fear or respect, it didn’t matter. They were both the same thing at the end of the day. “How is he treating you?”

“Very well. I enjoy working with him.”

She still hadn’t moved. “I bet it’s hard to keep up with him. He never makes it easy for his assistants. If you’re ever curious about him, just let me know, hm? I could help you out.”

“For the right price,” you added. “Isn’t that how it works, ma’am?”

“Why, yes. A mutually beneficial transaction for the both of us. It’d give you enough leverage to do something in your relationship, if you wanted. You could be more than a simple assistant. Rise above the ranks. Become a Stoneheart yourself. But to do that, you need information. You’ve never been curious about Aventurine? His name? His past?”

“No. It’s okay, ma’am. I don’t need any of that,” you said firmly. You finally raised your head to meet her eyes, blue and piercing. “It’s not my place. I don’t need to be so close to him, nor do I have any desire to surpass him. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the price of your information.”

Jade only smiled. “I understand. But if you’re ever interested in switching departments, please give me a call. I could use someone as smart as you. I’m well familiar with the process of polishing rough gemstones into something beautiful. But you’re quite loyal to him, aren’t you? I hope that it isn’t misplaced.”

—

Fortune was fickle, a weathervane that flipped in the wind, pointing in whatever direction fate guided it to without rhyme or reason. It was something you understood better than most people, and so little surprised you. 

One morning, you showed up and Aventurine wasn’t there. 

Not a surprise in and of itself, but he never missed work. More than that, he was always on time. And if he was held up, he would let you know. None of your other coworkers knew where he was, simply shrugged and said he would turn up when he did.

It wasn’t your place to keep track of him, and if no one else was worried, you didn’t need to be. But as soon as work hours were over, you rushed to Aventurine’s room.

You knew where it was, of course, but you’d never have a reason to visit before now. You didn’t even know if it was his real room, or just a place he stopped by when he had to manage his in-person affairs at the IPC. He was always on the move, Aventurine, and hard to pin down. 

Everyone received company housing, but the Stonehearts had more luxurious places than the grunt workers, which was to be expected. Still, there was something solid and unassuming about his door. It was lonely, too, set so far apart from everyone and everything else.

“Aventurine?” you called softly, knocking once, the rap of your knuckles echoing down the empty hall. No response.

You knocked again, harder this time, knuckles slamming against unyielding metal to the point of pain.

You didn’t have to be here. No one else was worried about him. If he wanted you to know where he was, he would tell you. You shouldn’t step over any lines. You were always so, so good at that. And Aventurine was capricious, fickle, and pushed and pulled at you with equal force, letting you get just shy of close before backing away again, a chasm filled with glittering presents between the two of you. If you walked away now, no one would know.

You pushed the door open. It was unlocked, and swung open silently at your touch, as if it was waiting for you.

The room was dim. The blinds were drawn, and the lights were off. Your eyes were used to weak lighting, though, and you were comfortable in the darkness. There wasn’t much to make out; a few clothes tossed carelessly on the floor and draped across a chair, a plush rug that your feet sank into. There were no decorations, no sign that anyone lived here or stayed for longer than a few days at a time. It was much like your own room, save that his furnishings were more luxurious, but that somehow made the sparseness that much sadder.

You crept closer, towards the bed in the middle of the room, knees bumping against the frame. Aventurine was twisted within its silk sheets, slick with sweat, eyes closed.

“Aventurine?” you whispered.

He moaned, a low, pained sound, like that of a trapped animal.

You reached out to touch him, but he jerked back as if on instinct. Your hand hovered uselessly in the air before you let it drop. His movement had shifted the sheets, revealing bandages wrapped around his torso, blood seeping through, bright blooms that stood out even in the darkness. 

“What happened, Aventurine?” you asked.

He didn’t respond. It was a mission, of some kind, most likely. Private Stoneheart business, or a deal gone wrong. But what happened didn’t matter so much as the fact that he was hurt. He had no honeyed words or facade left, just a pale, vulnerable body curled up in the dark by himself, trusting no one and nothing to come save him. Was he just planning on laying here until he healed, brushing off his absence with excuses? This was the most honest he had been with you, and it wasn’t even by his own violation.

For the next few hours, you brought him water, fruit, and soup. Cold towels, painkillers, and new bandages. You waited on the edge of the bed until he stopped flinching when you approached, when he cracked open his eyes, feverish and unfocused, to see you. Stray, golden hairs damp with sweat curled around his forehead.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. 

“I know.”

But now that he saw it was you, he let you coax warm soup into his mouth, catching whatever dribbled down his chin. You wiped away the sweat and pressed cold compresses to his forehead. You gave him painkillers and he shook his head, and so you placed them back on his bedside without a word.

It was thankless work, with supplies heedlessly bought from with your own money, credits that you would toil to earn once again. You passed time in this quiet, warm room with Aventurine, sleeves rolled up to your elbows as you changed his blood soaked bandages, revealing raw skin stitched and bleeding over a bullet wound, the wound low on his abdomen.

It was brutal work, what marred his skin, clearly meant to hurt, but you couldn’t look away. Nor could you stop from noticing that his back bore traces of old scars, silvery, tough flesh. More secrets, more things that you could ask about but would not. 

When his bandages were exchanged for a fresh pair and you had wiped away all the sweat again, Aventurine reached out a weak hand, tapping the bridge of the sunglasses on your face.

“You’re still wearing these.”

“They help my eyes.”

He laughed, a weak, dry sound, wind rustling through dead grass. “You could have bought better ones. What are you after, here? The Stoneheart position? Another promotion? A transfer, even? Jade says she likes her work.”

“No,” you said. “I won’t ask for more than what I have.”

“You can,” he pressed. “Are you afraid your luck will take it away? As long as I’m here, it won’t—”

“Maybe I did this to you,” you interrupted. “Have you considered that? Your luck has run out with me around.”

“So? What if it did?” Aventurine said. He propped himself up on his elbows, purple eyes intense as they bore into you. “That’s what I’ve been hoping for, Malachite. That your curse is stronger than mine.”

You sucked in a breath, then let it out. This was the heart of the matter, the truth of why he let you stay by his side, the answer you’ve been wondering all this time. He was after your curse after all, but not in a way that most people were. “You’d like my curse to affect you, wouldn’t it? That’s cruel of you, Aventurine. Maybe I was wrong, and I was the one cursed with you. You’re my bad luck.”

“Then isn’t that great? The universe’s most lucky and least lucky people are stuck together.”

“I changed my mind,” you said. You weren’t sure what emotions boiled in you. Anger? Happiness? Resentment? It pooled into one cavernous want, dark and bottomless, the same thing you felt when you first saw him. “I do want something from you. Tell me your name, Aventurine.”

“Who’s cruel now?” he murmured. Still, you didn’t pull away as he brought himself closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and fevered. “It’s Kakavasha.”

“Kakavasha,” you said, rolling the name around in your mouth like a pearl. “Kakavasha.”

“Are we even now? Don’t wear the name out, Malachite.”

“Not at all,” you said. “But this does balance the scales slightly.”

“Does it now? Being by my side won’t bring you much benefit, as you can see.”

“Neither does staying by mine, but you should know that I owe you a debt, so I’m stuck with you,” you said. 

“Oh?”

“And that means you’re stuck with me, too.”

Carefully, as if you were still approaching a cornered animal, you reached out a hand to Aventurine, twining your hands together. Your grip was loose, tenuous. His fingertips were cold, but the solid weight of it felt like a burning sun, his sweaty palm pressed against yours. He didn’t pull away, and that was enough.

There was nothing in the world you owned. You were cursed, and you could never have an ordinary life or a happy future. But you would grasp onto the things you wanted so tightly that nothing else could tear them away, no matter how selfish it was, no matter who got hurt. Because that was how people like you and him survived in this world.

“I’m taking a gamble on you,” you whispered. “So don’t disappoint me, Kakavasha.”

From the moment she met Aventurine, her life stopped standing still.

It wasn’t that everything changed at once since that fateful night. There was no single dramatic pivot, no clean before-and-after she could point to and say that’s when it happened. Instead, it was the accumulation of motion, a gradual, relentless acceleration that crept up on her until one day she realized she no longer remembered what it felt like to stand firmly in place.

Because Aventurine never stood still.

He moved through the world like momentum itself favored him, as if speed wasn’t something he endured, but something he needed.

At first, she thought it was dizzying.

Then she realized it was intoxicating.

There was something magnetic about the way he lived as if pausing would cost him more than any risk ever could. She learned to read the subtle signs— the way his fingers tapped when he was bored, the way his gaze sharpened when an opportunity presented itself, the way he always angled his body forward, already halfway to wherever he was going next. He walked fast, talked fast, lived fast, and if she hesitated even slightly, she knew she risked losing sight of him entirely.

So she learned to keep up.

She adjusted without noticing she was adjusting, learned to treasure the rare moments when he lingered instead of bolting, and somewhere along the way, his chaos stopped feeling like disorder and started feeling like direction.

And the strangest part was that she didn’t resent it. If anything, she felt more alive than she ever had before.

She followed him across terminals and time zones, through games of power she barely understood, through conversations laced with double meanings he introduced her to easily, confidently, and stakes that made her chest tighten just listening to them. And every time, she felt that quiet, dangerous thrill— the same one she felt the first night she saw him, the sense that she met something vast and volatile, something that might burn her if she held it wrong.

But she held on anyway.

There were moments, of course, when the speed overwhelmed her, when she doubted she could ever get used to the pace of the world when you had private ships and space anchors to all corners of the universe available at your fingertips. Late nights when exhaustion crept in at the edges of her vision, wondering if he ever truly rested, or if sleep was just another pause he tolerated. Moments when she watched him slip effortlessly into another role— charming executive, calculating negotiator, indulgent lover— and felt a flicker of uncertainty at how seamlessly he shifted between them.

She knew everyone curated themselves. Everyone chose what to reveal and what to keep hidden.

He couldn’t be blamed for doing the same.

And she never voiced any of it, of course, because for every single doubt, there were ten more reasons that made her want more.

More of the way he filled space, more of the warmth of his hand at the small of her back as he guided her through crowded rooms, more of the laughter that spilled out of him when something genuinely amused him. More of the way he looked at her like she was a choice he made again and again, even when everything else in his life felt like a gamble.

She wanted him, not in the shallow way people wanted the things Aventurine represented, but in the deeper, more dangerous way. She wanted his attention when it wasn’t performative. His presence when it wasn’t transactional. His stillness, if such a thing even existed.

And yet, even then, she understood something important.

She sensed it in the way his smile never quite faded, even in private. In the way he filled silence before it could settle. In the way he treated quiet moments like temporary ceasefires rather than safe ground. Saw how whenever she reached for something quieter, something slower, something that required him to stay rather than dazzle, he responded with excess.

Aventurine gave generously, lavishly, with a confidence that made refusal feel almost impolite. There was no lack of attention, no lack of indulgence, no lack of proof that he wanted her. He booked entire floors without blinking, sent her gifts that arrived without warning and without reason, draped her in luxury so seamlessly it began to feel like expectation rather than extravagance. He treated abundance like punctuation, something to emphasize what he already assumed was understood.

His gifts were never thoughtless, though. Never generic. He paid attention, remembered her preferences, anticipated her tastes, refined each offering until it felt custom-made. That alone could have been intimacy, if it weren’t always deployed at the same moment: right when she leaned a fraction closer to the truth of him.

And it took her some time to recognize the pattern.

At first, it felt coincidental. A necklace after a difficult conversation, a spontaneous trip after she asked a question he didn’t quite answer, a cascade of attention whenever she brushed up against something tender or unresolved.

That was when the gifts appeared, as if summoned.

Sometimes she accepted them gratefully. Sometimes she laughed and teased him for being excessive. Sometimes she wore them and felt beautiful and chosen and momentarily satisfied. And sometimes, late at night, she traced their edges with her fingers and felt an unfamiliar bitterness curl in her chest.

She noticed how quickly he deflected personal questions, how easily he reframed anything that brushed up against his past. How stories about his life came pre-packaged, delivered with practiced humor and just enough detail to feel complete until you realized they never led anywhere deeper. No lingering emotions, rough edges, or moments of vulnerability that hadn’t already been sanded smooth.

It was as if he had memorized a version of himself that was safe to share, and anything beyond that remained tightly locked away.

She told herself she was imagining it, that she was being unfair, that this was simply how Aventurine loved.

But patterns have weight. They repeat. They press against you until you either name them or let them define you.

She never doubted that he cared, though, that was the cruelest part.

There was no targeted cruelty in his avoidance, no malice in the way he redirected. Only the heaviness in his gaze, and the distance that had nothing to do with disinterest and everything to do with memory. He looked older then, not in years but in experience, like someone who had learned too early that softness came with consequences.

Those moments never lasted. He always caught himself, straightened. Smiled.

And that distance remained, unrelenting and merciless.

She had a sinking suspicion that it could never be bridged, because what she wanted couldn’t be wrapped. Because she didn’t want proof that he could provide. She wanted proof that he could stay. That when nothing distracted him, when there was no audience and no stakes and no momentum to hide behind, he would still choose to be present.

She just wanted him to want her like she wanted him.

But was it really fair to expect more from him, when he had never promised her more than this?

He never claimed to be vulnerable, never pretended to be something he wasn’t. If anything, he was painfully honest about the way he avoided honesty— so consistent in his deflections that it felt intentional, almost ritualistic.

And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from wanting.

Wanting him to sit with her without distraction. Wanting him to tell her something unpolished, something unmarketable. Wanting to see the man who existed when there was nothing to win and no one to impress.

Sometimes, she caught glimpses.

A flicker of hesitation before a joke.

A rare, quiet look when he thought she wasn’t watching.

The way his hand lingered in hers a second longer than necessary, as if he had momentarily forgotten to let go.

Those moments were enough to keep her hoping, enough to convince her that the man she wanted wasn’t a fantasy, that one day he might want her, touch her, take her without restraint.

But hope, she was learning, could be dangerous too.

Because the more she wanted him, the more she realized how carefully he rationed himself. How skillfully he offered everything else in exchange. How easy it could be, one day, to wake up surrounded by proof of his affection and still feel like a stranger to his inner world.

She didn’t want to be indulged.

She wanted to be invited in.

The greatest irony was that the night it finally happened, she hadn’t been expecting it.

Not that she ever could hope to predict him, calling her at this hour with that unmistakable, velvet-smooth mischief bleeding into every syllable of his voice, the particular kind that always meant trouble, or when it came to Aventurine, something far more dangerous and intoxicating than trouble: delight, restless and reckless and aimed directly at her.

“Get dressed and don't ask questions,” he said over the phone, as if demanding her immediate attention was simply how greetings worked. “I’m kidnapping you for the night.”

"What?" She blinked, momentarily frozen, before glancing down at herself— comfortable clothes, hair slightly messy from a blissful, uneventful evening she had fully intended to spend doing absolutely nothing. “You can’t just—”

“I already am,” he interrupted, smooth and effortless and she could practically hear the sly grin in every word. “You have thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes?!” she repeated, aghast, her voice cracking up an octave as she hurriedly stood up. He already landed? Here?

“I’d say more,” Aventurine replied with a sigh, faux-thoughtful, “but you take forever and I’m hungry.”

She laughed, because really, what else could she do? Because Aventurine’s hunger, regardless of its target, was a shifting creature: sudden and unpredictable, striking without warning, overwhelming in its intensity. Whether it was hunger for food, attention, adrenaline, victory, or some reaction from her that he could claim as his daily entertainment, he moved toward it with the same ruthless efficiency.

And when that hunger hit, he moved fast.

Too fast.

“Aventurine, I’m not ready—” she tried, already stumbling toward her bedroom, her pulse beginning to race.

“That sounds like a you problem, sweetheart,” he cut her off brightly, and through the line she could hear the sound of a car door shutting in the background, undoubtedly already prepared for him in advance. “You now have twenty eight minutes.”

“Aventurine, listen—” she began, half outraged, half amused.

He hummed, that same falsely considering and infinitely amused sound, as though he were truly weighing the consequences of generosity. “All right,” he conceded with theatrical reluctance, “twenty eight and a half. But no more, I left my drink on the ship and I want us to be back on it before the ice melts.”

Her retort died on her tongue as the line clicked shut because he, of course, had hung up the moment he secured what he wanted.

She stared at her phone in disbelief, then let out a short, strangled sound that could only be described as affectionate frustration before rushing to her closet, trying desperately to pull herself together.

Something nice.

Something that matched his rhythm, his extravagance, his effortlessly curated chaos.

She rifled through dresses, fabrics whispering like possibilities between her fingers as adrenaline surged in her chest.

Because what, exactly, was he hungry for tonight?

Knowing him it could be a number of things. Just a decadent meal in some impossible location? A thrill disguised as luxury? A challenge?

Her?

Probably all of it, Aventurine was never a man of singular appetites.

As she shimmied into the nicest dress she had only worn once and fastened earrings with trembling hands, her phone vibrated again, the screen lighting up with a single message delivered with his trademark flair:

Outside. Twenty eight minutes exactly. I expect praise.

She inhaled sharply, a disbelieving laugh slipping from her lips as she slipped into the bathroom and grabbed her brush.

Trouble.

He was absolutely, undeniably trouble dipped in gold, dressed in charm, and wrapped in danger.

But he could wait on her this one time.

And yes, she took more than thirty minutes.

When she stepped out to meet him, he ushered her into his car with a hand at the small of her back, already launching into a tangent, his touch light but deliberate. He always acted like it was nothing, like that contact was just an afterthought, but she was learning that nothing Aventurine did was accidental. Then everything blurred together as he whisked her away like he always did, through private terminals and ships and already arranged lounges.

They arrived at a his chosen exhibit of extravagance for the night, where the staff greeted Aventurine by name and tone—deferential, practiced, just a touch too careful.

He didn’t even notice, already moving ahead, already arranging. And she followed, into dinner that stretched on like a dream.

She tried real caviar for the first time. He stole half of her plate with no shame. They argued about which dessert looked better and ended up ordering both “in the name of diplomacy".

And she laughed.

Aeons, she laughed.

There was something so addictive about Aventurine’s quick rhythm that had pulled her in from the moment she first met him.

And she tried to keep him there, just as she did back then when she first saw him, and just as she always wanted to do whenever they were together.

Longer.

Long after dessert was finished and her drink was empty.

Long after the restaurant began to dim toward its late-night mood lighting.

So she asked another question, laughed at another joke, listened to another story—anything just to keep the night from ending. Because this world of marble and gold, of shimmering lights and Aventurine’s eyes reflecting them, felt unreal. Magical. Too perfect to let go.

He indulged her easily, always with that delighted sparkle, as if her attention was the best thing he’d been given all night.

But even perfect nights run their course.

When the waiter cleaned up their table, he glanced at his watch, just for a second, and her heart dropped a little.

Well, time was up.

He stood, offered his hand with a smile. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

She tried to hide the disappointment, the quiet ache of wanting more blooming in her chest, and managed a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

If he noticed her disappointment, he didn’t comment on it. He just placed his hand gently at her back again, guiding her slowly toward the exit. Like he didn’t want the night to end either, but didn’t trust himself to say so.

The warm light spilled from the windows onto the pavement below as they stepped outside, warmth bleeding into the night, and for a moment everything felt suspended between one moment and the next. She opened her mouth—maybe to thank him, maybe to ask if they could do this again sooner— but the universe had other plans.

A single drop hit her shoulder.

Then another.

One moment the air was calm, warm, thick with the afterglow of a perfect evening.

And the next, the sky opened up into a sudden, furious downpour, rain plummeting in sheets, drenching the pavement and drowning the streetlights in a silver blur.

They both froze for half a heartbeat. She laughed in surprise, shocked and unguarded, lifting her hands instinctively as if that might shield her from the onslaught, but Aventurine grabbed her hand.

“Run!”

They bolted, laughter ripping from her chest as her heels slipped on the wet stone. He steadied her without breaking pace, his grip firm, his hair plastered to his forehead in seconds as they sprinted toward the car, and for once there was no elegance in it.

Her thin dress clung to her legs, soaked through, becoming another layer of skin. The cold downpour slapped her arms, her back, her shoulders. She could barely see anything, could barely breathe—

But she had never felt more alive.

They stumbled under the awning beside his car, panting, dripping, laughing maniacally. Her hair was a mess, her makeup smudged, her dress glued to her skin. She pushed wet strands out of her face with a chuckle. "I’m sure I look absolutely insane right now."

Aventurine didn’t answer.

Not at first.

His eyes traveled slowly, painfully slowly, from her soaked hair down to her collarbones, her shoulders, the lines of her dress now clinging to every curve beneath it.

It was true, she was a mess.

Her dress clung to her in a way that felt unintentional bordering on indecent, darkened by rain until it looked like it belonged to a different version of her entirely. Her makeup had smudged, lipstick softened into something blurred and imperfect. Her hair was damp, curling where it shouldn’t, covering her face instead of framing it.

She looked undone.

But to him, she had never looked more free.

There was nothing curated about her in this moment. No careful presentation, just breathless laughter fading into something quieter as she pushed wet hair from her face and looked at him like he was everything.

This version of her— raw, rain-soaked, unguarded— didn’t ask anything of him. She wasn’t impressed by him right now. Wasn’t dazzled. Wasn’t watching for the next move. She was simply there, present and breathing and real in a way that felt dangerously close to that first night when he felt that flicker of something wild beneath her skin, and the urge to bring it out of her. That same raw and unguarded spark flickered across his face now, before he wrestled it back behind a cool, practiced smile.

Hunger.

Yearning.

It was subtle, but violent in its own way, like a card flipped too early, a gamble taken without calculating the odds. He stood there, rain still dripping from the tips of his hair, his breath visible in the cool air, staring at her like she had just stepped out of a dream he had no right to witness.

“Must be awful to be in wet clothes,” he said lightly to break the silence as he held the door open for her, though his voice dropped on the last word, lower than necessary, quieter than the moment required, like something in him was deliberately being kept in check.

She laughed it off easily, shrugging as she climbed into the car, rain still clinging to her skin and clothes. “It’s cold, but I’ll be home soon. I’ll change.”

Soon was relative in this case, though. Her place was a couple of systems away, an unspoken but persistent consequence of following Aventurine so unquestioningly. She never knew where in the universe she’d end up by the end of the night.

He closed the door behind her, the sound soft but loaded, then walked around the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat without saying anything else, the silence settling quickly and decisively between them.

The space suddenly felt too small, too contained. He became acutely aware of everything at once: the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way raindrops traced slow, glistening paths down her neck, the uncertain glance she cast his way now that lingered a fraction too long, sensing the shift even if she couldn’t yet name it.

At the touch of his hand, the engine purred to life, a soft vibration running through the frame of the car as he pulled smoothly out of the parking space, his focus fixed straight ahead on the road as though looking at her might tip something irrevocably out of balance.

He should take her home, he knew that. Felt the certainty of it settle in his mind with the same ease as it always did.

This was usually the point where he redirected things, where he reframed the moment into something lighter and easier to stomach, filling the space with a clever remark, a plan, an invitation that kept everything polished and shining on the surface. When they would return the way they came from, away from this planet, back to the safety of their individual routines, just as he had done up until now.

The thought was already there, sensible and safe, fully formed before he even needed to reach for it.

Instead, when he finally spoke, what left his mouth was something different entirely.

“My place is closer.”

She startled, dramatic enough that she knew he could see it. How obviously her breath caught. How her eyes widened just slightly when realization dawned, because she understood what this was, even if he hadn’t fully articulated it to himself yet.

Four words offered simply, almost casually, perfectly logical on their own. And it was true. His apartment was technically closer, only a short jump away, more practical by any reasonable measure. And still, the implication of his words lingered between them, delicate and exposed, settling into the space like something fragile neither of them dared disturb too roughly.

This was an excuse, plain and simple, offered under the guise of practicality.

They both knew there were easier answers, more reasonable ones: he could have arranged them a change of clothes, booked a hotel, came up with a dozen solutions that made far more sense. He had the means for all of it, the instinct, the habit of excess.

But he didn’t.

This wasn’t convenience, and it wasn’t just practicality, and it wasn’t even temptation alone. It was a threshold, a precipice, an invitation and a dare all folded into one.

This was pure indulgence.

The first time he had reached outward instead of deflecting, the first time he had opened a door rather than gesturing her toward something brighter and safer elsewhere.

She swallowed, pulse pounding in her ears.

She searched his face, suddenly careful, suddenly aware of the weight of what he was offering. And before she could talk herself out of it, before she could hope too much, she nodded. A small, almost imperceptible motion.

Something akin to relief.

Something like victory.

Something like wanting.

He said nothing else, and the silence that settled over the car wasn’t uncomfortable. It was electric, dangerous with possibility. Aventurine— the man who could charm a boardroom, gamble with a smile, tease like it was his native tongue— remained quiet, but he wasn’t calm, not even close. Not during the ride, not when they boarded, not when they landed.

And with every passing moment, as they drew closer, the realization pressed heavier against her chest, deep and undeniable. It settled into her slowly at first, the way the streets began to change, traffic thinning until the city felt less like a living thing and more like a held breath, as though even the world itself knew to quiet down here. She watched it all wide-eyed, breath catching as the passing streets gave way to polished luxury, the shift so seamless it almost felt unreal.

The buildings here were different— taller, polished stone, soft lighting, and the kind of space that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already assumed it belonged to the people worthy of occupying it.

She pressed her hands together in front of her as they glided through the gates, security barely sparing them a second glance before waving them through, everything unfolding with an efficiency that bordered on indifference. It was seamless. Untouchable. Like passing through an invisible barrier, not just into a different part of the universe, but into an entirely different version of Aventurine’s life, one she had only ever glimpsed from the outside.

A guard stood at the private lobby entrance, straightening instantly the moment he recognized who was approaching. “Good evening, Mr. Aventurine.”

Respect mingled with something sharper.

Aventurine didn’t acknowledge it with anything more than a faint, noncommittal hum as he walked past, though she noticed the way his posture stiffened just slightly, like this was a part of himself he hadn’t intended to put on display for her. He moved beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, but there was anticipatory tension coiled there that she hadn’t felt before as he ushered her toward a private elevator, doors sliding shut behind them with a sound that sounded final.

She stared at the glowing panel as they ascended into the sky, heart thudding at the numbers climbing too fast for her to count, acutely aware of herself: her damp dress, her smudged makeup, the way she suddenly felt very small and very out of place. Everything felt too much and too fast, even though nothing was rushed.

When the doors finally opened with a soft chime, there was no grand reveal waiting for her. Just the expanse on the other side, softly illuminated by the city light spilling in through floor-to-ceiling windows, brushing over black marble floors, subtle gold inlays, and a space so meticulously curated it felt like stepping into the quiet pulse of his mind.

He stepped in first, then paused, jaw flexing once. He opened his mouth like he was thinking about what he wanted to say, then closed it. She saw the moment his composure flickered, saw the uncertainty and thrill shadow his eyes like he wasn’t sure if inviting her inside was pure, reckless brilliance… or complete disaster.

Then he gestured for her to enter, almost formal.

The penthouse was… expensive wasn’t even the right word.

It was undeniably luxurious, true, but it was a restrained kind of luxury, quiet and intentional, no ostentatious displays. Soft amber lights traced clean lines through the space, from the entrance to the sofa angled precisely toward floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a living, breathing painting. She had expected his place to be pristine in the way luxury homes so often were— immaculate, expensive, untouchable — but instead she was struck by the absence of coldness, by the fact that nothing here felt sterile.

And that surprised her more than the private elevator or the biometric locks.

There were signs of life everywhere, if she looked closely. A half-finished glass on the counter. A stack of documents left beside a sleek tablet, margins filled with handwritten notes. A bowl of unfamiliar trinkets on a side table, a scattered deck of cards, tokens, stones, things that looked collected rather than simply bought. One of his jackets— his favorite one, she realized— hung over the back of the sofa like he’d tossed it there days ago and never bothered to move it.

Pieces of him, scattered like breadcrumbs.

Treasures, she thought, if only one knew how to recognize them. The quiet presence of a man who spent too many nights here thinking instead of sleeping.

Not the carefully curated image of Aventurine the world knew.

This place felt private in a way no hotel suite ever has, not designed to be admired and abandoned, but something deeply his, something that had never been meant to be seen.

She stepped further inside, letting her fingers skim over the back of the couch, brushing the fabric of his discarded jacket as if testing whether it was real. “So,” she whistled teasingly, glancing around as if taking inventory of the moment itself, tone light rather than accusing, “no grand entrance? No dramatic buildup? I must admit, I expected more from you, Aventurine.”

He exhaled slowly, controlled, trying to recalibrate his entire persona before her eyes, but it lacked his usual effortless flourish, and she knew it.

“It was an impulse,” he joked, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. “I don’t usually indulge those.”

She laughed softly. “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

She wandered deeper into the space, letting the silence stretch, warm and curious rather than tense, allowing him to watch her explore the room without the pressure of immediate commentary. He followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, every line of his body composed yet strangely alert, aware that every step carried the risk that she might stumble upon a piece of him he hadn’t intended to show.

She stopped by the windows, the city lights catching her silhouette and painting it in gold. “The view here is incredible,” she murmured. "Figures you'd manage to snatch up only the best for yourself."

“It's good for late nights,” he deflected easily, though his voice had softened despite himself. “Keeps me from falling asleep.”

She turned toward him with a knowing smile, head tilted just slightly. “You say that like you sleep at all.”

Her ability to see through him was becoming dangerous.

And addictive.

For the first time in a long, long while, he had no idea what he was doing, and he liked it.

She stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the rain clinging to his clothes, feel the warmth of his skin pushing back against the chill of soaked fabric, close enough to notice the faint rise and fall of his chest and the single drop still clinging stubbornly to his jaw, trailing slowly downward.

“Aventurine?”

He hummed, sound soft, almost fragile. As if waiting for her reaction, bracing himself for judgment. Like letting her in, even by accident, had shaken something deeply rooted beneath his practiced nonchalance.

“You’re shivering,” she said.

He looked down at his wet shirt, his dripping sleeves, the dark cling of fabric hugging his frame, and laughed under his breath. He hadn’t even realized. “Well, I suppose I am.”

She offered the smallest smile, and reached out, brushing away the raindrop from his face with her thumb.

His breath hitched, just barely.

Then he cleared his throat quickly, grinning and retreating back into motion, into the safety of distraction.

“There’s towels in the bathroom.” He gestured vaguely toward a hallway. “Go ahead. I’ll go change and… find something to warm us up.”

I, not we. The distinction mattered.

He started walking fast towards what she assumed was his room like a man fleeing his own sentence.

She followed deeper into the apartment, curiosity pulling her along like gravity.

The bathroom door shut behind her with a soft click, and she stood there for a second longer than necessary, breathing out slowly, only now allowing herself to register where she was.

Then she looked around.

This wasn’t a bathroom.

It was a spa masquerading as one.

She hesitated as she regarded the massive shower, the surfaces lined with sleek, minimalist bottles— creams, oils, washes— their labels understated but their presence unmistakably expensive, carrying scents she recognized only from glossy magazine spreads and hotels they’d passed through but never lingered in.

A quiet, incredulous thought slipped free before she could stop it. Should I even touch any of this?

She imagined Aventurine raising a brow at the question, leaning against the doorway with that infuriatingly charming half-smile.

He absolutely would not mind.

So she reached for one of the bottles, hesitantly at first, then more confidently when nothing exploded or reprimanded her for daring. A soft, nervous laugh slipped out as she twisted the cap and the scent that bloomed into the air was unmistakably familiar.

His.

By the time the shower wrapped her in steam and heat, the tension she was carrying began to ease, the rain and cold of the evening washing away as the water steadied her breath and slowed her thoughts. She let herself stand there longer than she needed to, letting the warmth soak into her skin, grounding her in the present.

When she finally stepped out, she found a robe hanging neatly on a hook, and she wrapped it haphazardly around herself, fabric settling against her skin like a quiet indulgence.

She met her own gaze in the mirror.

She looked… different.

It wasn’t even the shower or the expensive products, it was the anticipation making her glow.

And everything smelled like him.

That realization sent a dangerous flutter through her chest, thrilling, intimate in a way she wasn’t ready to name. It felt like crossing another invisible line, one she hadn’t noticed until she was already standing on the other side of it.

It made her feel tentative and excited all at once, painfully aware of every inch of skin hidden beneath the robe, of the fact that she wore nothing underneath it, of how much territory she had crossed tonight without ever intending to and how quickly it had happened.

She took a steadying breath and tied the robe a little tighter around herself, as if that small act could keep everything contained, knowing even as she did it that nothing about this night had been safe at all.

The living room was dimmer now, lights lowered until the city beyond the windows became the primary illumination, a scatter of gold and white stretched endlessly across the skyline. Aventurine stood in front of the glass with his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed as he watched it. He’d changed into something softer, the sharp edges of his usual wardrobe replaced by looser lines, his hair still damp and curling faintly in defiance of its usual immaculate styling, a rushed towel-dry betrayed by the faint trail of water still glimmering at his temple.

He heard her before he saw her.

The soft whisper of fabric, the nearly silent step.

His posture went very still, then he turned and for one heartbeat, one delicate moment, he simply stared.

His gaze dipped slowly, deliberately, controlled enough to betray nothing outright, and yet something unmistakable flickered beneath it anyway, soft heat curling at the corner of his smile, restrained but very much present. He didn’t comment on her appearance, didn’t offer the easy teasing that would’ve made this safer for both of them. Instead, he inclined his head slightly toward the couch in quiet invitation, where two crystal glasses he'd prepared while she showered waited on the low table beside a decanter half-filled with amber liquid.

For a second, some instinctive part of her expected embarrassment, wanted to tug the robe tighter in retreat, to make herself smaller, but she didn’t. Instead, she lifted her chin, steady and unflinching, accepting the unspoken challenge humming between them as she crossed the living room toward him.

He watched her approach, eyes tracking her with an intensity he made no effort to disguise. He picked up one of the glasses and held it out to her. “Here,” he murmured, voice lower than before, softer. “For the cold.”

Their fingers brushed as she took it, and warmth pooled low in her stomach as she swallowed, unsure whether it came from the accidental touch or from the way his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary.

She sat down and he settled beside her on the sofa, ignoring the polite, careful distance. She could hear the subtle hitch in his breath when the scent of his own cologne drifted back to him from her skin, and the realization that, perhaps, she had the same effect on him as he did on her sent a jolt of adrenaline through her.

She lifted her glass to her lips, pretending her pulse wasn’t racing, and the first sip eased something tight in her chest. He watched her as she drank, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass with practiced ease, relaxed in a way she rarely got to see. It made him feel closer to her somehow, more dangerous in his ease than he ever was when he was all sharp edges and polished charm.

The sheer ridiculousness of it all hit her at once, and before she could stop herself, a small laugh slipped free.

One of his brows lifted immediately, amused. “Now, that didn’t sound flattering.”

That only made her chuckle again.

“No, no, I'm very impressed by your strategy,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her glass, a playful smile tugging at her mouth. “Whisk a girl away to your penthouse with some flimsy excuse, give her expensive alcohol, invite her to stay the night. Very smooth.”

His lips curved, slow and devastating. "I’m a professional, after all.”

Her mouth opened, sound caught in her throat halfway between laughter and an outraged groan. “You are so insufferable,” she laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly. "You're lucky you have your IPC perks."

“Perks?” he echoed, mock-offended, leaning back as though perfectly at ease, stretching one arm across the back of the couch in a casual sprawl. “I'll have you know I worked very hard for those.”

His teasing never faltered, not even for a second.

But in reality, he was concentrating very hard on breathing evenly, on not looking at the way the robe fell just a bit more open with her every motion, on not acknowledging the simple fact that she was in his space, that she had just walked out of his shower with his scent clinging to her skin and turned his entire sense of balance inside out.

He could charm, deflect and tease with anyone else, that had always been second nature to him, something reflexive and safe. But now every quip felt precarious, like threading on thin ice that could break any second, because for the first time in a very long while, he actually cared how she answered.

His fingers drummed once against the back of the couch— an unconscious tell, a tiny crack in the veneer he usually wore so effortlessly— then stilled completely as though he realized too late that any movement at all gave him away, betrayed the sharp spike of adrenaline that came from such proximity.

“Well,” she said, smiling into her glass, “good thing you managed to convince me to stay. Honestly, now that I have seen your shower, I never want to leave.”

He shouldn’t have reacted. It went against his better judgement.

But something warm and reckless flickered in him, and his mouth moved before his brain could catch up.

“Then don’t,” he said quietly, smoothly, except his nonchalance felt too fragile, stretched too thin. So he exhaled a chuckle, lifting a brow to ease the weight of his own words. “You know… purely for your comfort, of course. Wouldn’t want you braving the cold in a damp dress.”

“Oh, of course.” She laughed softly, the sound vibrating through him like a spark jumping a live wire, and she turned her face toward his, so close the tips of their noses almost brushed. “All for my comfort.”

He nodded sagely, putting on the most solemn expression he could manage. “Generosity is a cornerstone of my character.”

She raised her hand then, reaching without hesitation to brush back the damp lock of hair that clung stubbornly to his forehead. He tensed unconsciously, because his body always remembered before his mind did, but he forced himself not to retreat. He leaned subtly into her touch with the barest tilt, the world narrowing down to the warmth of her fingertips. It was a quiet surrender she might’ve missed if she wasn’t looking right at him.

“Well,” she whispered, lowering her hand, letting her shoulder brush along his with feather-light insistence, “if this is how you treat your guests, maybe I should stay more often.”

Aventurine’s smirk was a slow, dangerous curve of his mouth. “I might start charging rent.”

Her laughter followed, intimate and warm, as her fingers traced lightly along the inside of his forearm, a whisper of a touch that made him go taut in an instant. “With what you’d charge, I’d never recover.”

The shift in him was immediate and visceral.

Dangerous.

He tried to smirk like he still had the advantage. Like he wasn’t seconds away from doing something he couldn’t take back, and was still debating if he would regret, weighing the cost even as he knew he’d already decided to pay it.

But she was so close, and her skin was still warm from the shower, and his scent still clung to her, and she had just admitted she didn’t want to leave, and he knew—he knew— that this wasn’t like any flirting he’d ever done before.

His eyes flicked down to her mouth, the exposed skin of her collarbone, and then back up as if checking her expression for permission he didn’t dare verbalize. It made something tight and restless coil in his chest, knowing he might not be the one who held the upper hand this time.

“Aventurine,” she whispered, scooting even closer, knee brushing his thigh. She regarded him with that look again, one that felt like a challenge wrapped in concern. Like she thought if she stared long enough, she might catch him in the act of lying to himself. “Stop trying to be a coward. It doesn't suit you.”

The word struck deeper than it had any right to.

Coward?

He’d been called a thousand worse things in his life— snake, conman, liar, lucky bastard—but never that.

Not once.

And she said it teasingly, lightly, but he heard both the challenge and the invitation beneath it. He wasn’t afraid of risk, wasn’t afraid of losing, he never had been.

So why was he trying so hard to keep steady around her?

She tilted her head, each word almost a caress along his nerves. “Come on, aren’t you supposed to be the reckless one?”

At that, something inside of him snapped.

He set his glass down slowly, with a crisp, decisive clink. “Screw it,” he murmured, voice rough, a shade darker. "I am."

He didn’t give himself time to think, because thinking slowed him down, and nothing good ever came from that. One second he was still breathing her in, still hovering on the edge of restraint, and the next his mouth was on hers, moving fast and decisive and utterly done pretending this was anything but pure want.

It was hungry and unpolished, like he'd been holding himself back for far too long and the release overwhelmed him all at once. There was heat in it, urgency, the sharp edge of desperation that’s been coiling beneath every joke and sideways glance, every almost-touch.

Her fingers curled instinctively into the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer without meaning to, and the soft sound that escaped her—barely a whimper, really—made the last of his suave veneer, his sly detachment, frazzle out into nothingness. There was only raw need left pulsing through him in the way he chased her mouth, the way he kissed her like a starving man who had finally found something worth devouring.

He tasted like expensive liquor and adrenaline, like something sinful, making her head spin as she melted into him. Her robe brushed his shirt, their breaths tangled in the charged space between one kiss and the next, and the friction, even with the barrier between them, was enough to make her lose her mind.

She gasped, and he seized her mouth again, deeper this time, like he wanted to memorize the shape, while his mind continued to race frantically.

Aeons, he had been touched before.

Too much.

Too often.

Far too young.

He couldn’t even remember the time when touch stopped feeling like safety and affection, and started feeling like a demand, a violation enforced with a smile as someone tallied his worth. His body, his smallest and last possession, had been used as currency and leverage, another ledger being filled.

And later, when he was free—or at least, freer than before— intimacy became just another tool at his arsenal, a means to an end but never a truth. He became a master in the mechanics of desire, practiced in the economy of seduction, handing out attention to all kinds of fleeting faces as currency that bought influence or silence or favors.

He'd taught himself to move with intent so razor-sharp it might as well have been a weapon, chasing adrenaline like a drug he couldn’t quite metabolize. Every movement was intentional, every inch of space monitored, every gesture sharpened into something that looked like desire, but felt like strategy, meaningful only insofar as it shifted the balance in his favor.

A slow lean-in, a tilted smile, distraction disguised under the touch of his hand, bait thrown with a graze of his fingers— all of it calculated, precise. Because by then, he was always the one in control.

And control made touch tolerable.

So he let people take. Let them assume. Let them press their expectations into him until he fit the shape they needed, sharp edges sanded down, smile polished, odds tilted just enough in their favor to make them think they’d won something.

He was very skilled at that.

In rooms full of strangers he could be both indulgent and empty at once, because nothing there ever asked for more. There was nothing at stake, nothing that could be lost, nothing that could touch him in ways that left marks deeper than skin. He could be generous with money and favors and witty conversation, because none of that ever cost him anything worth keeping.

Yet, beneath all of his easy generosity and amicable smile festered something colder, simpler:

No one got close.

No one got near.

Not unless he permitted it, and he permitted almost no one.

And if someone would touch him without permission, without warning, his world would momentarily flash white-hot and blinding. His throat would close. His body would freeze, then snap back into place, mechanical and perfect, as though nothing had happened at all. And in the next second, he would already be pulling back, already calculating how to spin the momentary weakness to his advantage.

But now—

Now she was in his arms, and the shocking truth was that he didn’t want distance or control or the protective detachment he’d survived on for so long.

He wanted her.

He wanted all of her, every breath, every stuttered inhale, every tremor of her fingers against his skin, every tiny shift of her robe brushing his shirt. He wanted to catalog her reactions, to chase the sounds she made when he kissed her just right, to memorize the heat of her mouth and the softness of her sighs.

One of his hands slid around her waist, anchoring her against him with a confidence so complete it bordered on possessive as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss until she felt it in her spine.

And she kissed him back with equal fire—soft and sure, teasing and intent all at once—meeting him breath for breath until her composure cracked down the center and she was suddenly the one leaning in, seeking, wanting, unable to hold herself still.

Only when breathing became a necessity did he tear himself away, chest rising and falling, their lips still so close she could feel the tremor in his exhale.

“There,” she whispered, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed with heat. “Was that so hard?”

His forehead dropped to her shoulder, and he let out a low, unsteady laugh against her skin, shaking, like he’d just gambled with something he wasn’t prepared to lose.

“I must be more drunk than I realized,” he breathed. “You should probably stop me.”

He was drunk, true, but not on the alcohol, and she knew it. Her hand slid slowly into his damp hair, and she tugged him back up to her lips, taunting, her voice a whisper that trembled with desire. “Not a chance. You're not getting off that easy.”

And then she kissed him again, harder and deeper, but no less intoxicating, with a hunger that collided perfectly with his. The robe slipped a little at her shoulder, heat rising between them as the world narrowed down to the press of their bodies and the ragged rush of their shared breath.

Hunger meeting hunger.

Want colliding with want.

His breath hitched sharply, and he trembled against her imperceptibly. Deep beneath his skin, beneath the practiced stillness of his polished exterior, he could feel the faint, traitorous jitter trailing along his nerves. A restless quiver threaded itself into his pulse that had nothing to do with liquor and everything to do with the way she touched him, the way she breathed against him, the way her fingers curled against his shirt.

When she pulled him closer, robe slipping even more, enough to brush warm skin against fabric, he felt something inside him twist and break loose. His hands tightened at her waist with a desperation so raw, so unlike the easy arrogance he usually wore in crowded rooms, that he nearly flinched at his own sincerity.

He was no stranger to lust. He’d fed it more times than he could count, had used and weaponized it, had hidden behind it when it was convenient. Even had nights like this: reckless, hazy nights fueled by adrenaline and drowning in self-loathing, tangled with strangers he’d forget before sunrise.

But this— this was danger.

Because, while those nights were safe exactly because they were meaninglessness, this actually meant something.

She meant something.

And it struck him with blinding clarity that he didn’t want this night to be forgettable. He didn’t want it to blur into the reckless haze of adrenaline he used to drown himself in. He didn’t want it to be something flippant or swallowed by morning-after distance.

He actually wanted to remember every second.

In fact, he wanted her to remember every second.

And the realization that he wanted her in a way that left no room for escape, no room to hide behind charm or smirking composure or that old instinct urging him to retreat into a joke or a lie, was exhilarating and absolutely terrifying. He could feel the terrifying slip of control, the dizzying free fall awaiting him.

But he always did like the moment right before the impact best, after all.

So, he kissed her again, deeper still, like he needed to anchor himself in her warmth before he could change his mind and push her away, this new unfamiliar territory thrilling him as much as it unsettled him, slow buzz of uncertainty awakening beneath his skin.

Again, when breath became a necessity rather than an indulgence, they tore apart only to immediately seek each other out again, him pulling her onto his lap as if distance itself hurt, as if the air between their bodies crackled with something hot and starving.

“Aventurine,” she gasped, the sound fragile and breathless, snagging on the syllables of his name. Her eyes were wide and shining, cheeks warm, lips parted, welcoming him back with nothing but want.

He wanted her so badly it felt like madness, fevered and relentless, in a way that clawed its way up his spine and lodged itself deep in his throat until it became impossible to breathe around. Every instinct screamed at him to pull her closer, to drown in the heat of her, to lose himself in the simplicity of touch and shared gravity. It made him want to forget the careful calculus he lived by, to stop measuring the cost of every step forward, to forget that he had built himself to be handled.

Because he liked the way she made him feel dangerous instead of disposable, in spite of the old instinct whispering: Let her take. Let her use you. That’s safer, that's familiar.

Wrapped around her finger, he thought, amused and faintly bitter.

But he didn’t pull away.

“You know,” he breathed quietly, as if confiding a secret, “I think I'm about to make a very bad decision.”

Her lips curved, breathless but brave. “Funny,” she said. “I was just thinking how this was the best decision I ever made.”

He didn’t even realize he was moving until her back sank into the cushions, the two of them shifting in a slow, natural tangle of limbs and gasps and heat. He hovered over her, bracing himself, begging silently for more, more, more.

Her arms curled around his neck, pulling him down to her, and he let his mouth wander, tracing a slow trail along her jaw, down to the warm, vulnerable slope of her throat. He felt her pulse jump beneath his lips as he nicked the sensitive spot behind her ear with his teeth, and something inside him tightened sharply.

Because beneath the want lived a colder, sharper truth he could not escape: he didn’t know how to love gently.

He wasn’t built for unconditional devotion, for patience and safety and the slow, careful offering of a self unarmed. What he knew, what had kept him alive up until now, was how to take. How to claim space, claim bodies, claim fate before it could turn into a weapon aimed at his throat.

Take the touch before it could be used against you. Take the desire before it curdled into obligation. Take, and take, and take until every greedy part of him was fed, until the hunger that had ruled his life quieted at last.

He moved with that slow, deliberate grace of his that could either charm a room or ruin it, this time focused entirely on her. The couch creaked, and her hands slipped into his hair, fingers tightening as he continued the slow brush of his lips along her throat, down to the curve of her shoulder, his restraint thinning with every heartbeat.

His breath brushed her collarbone, then lower, down to the parted edges of her robe. Slowly, painfully, he dragged his mouth down the open edge, lingering where the fabric parted, savoring her instead of devouring her. His lips hovered just shy of her skin, and he had to choke down the urge to claim her with teeth, to leave a mark on the unmarred expanse of her chest that would brand her as his, and only his, somewhere only he could see.

He was a selfish man, he knew.

He’d taken things his whole life, he’d never truly savored anything.

But he wanted to, now.

He wanted her to melt beneath him, wanted her breath to hitch because of him, wanted her thoughts to blur and stutter until he was the only thing anchoring her to the moment. He wanted to paint every inch of her with a kind of attention he had never given anyone before, had never even thought to offer, because it required presence instead of performance.

And the most egocentric part of him, the part he knew too well, wanted to ruin her for anyone who might come after him. He wanted her to remember, always, that he had the sharper wit, the hotter touch, the better kiss than anyone else. He wanted to steal every sound from her lips and hoard them like winnings after a perfect gamble, to drink up every sigh, every breath, every shiver of pleasure as if it were something he had earned.

A better man would've thought that she deserved more than this, someone who could want her without needing to cage the feeling or sharpen it into something survivable. Someone who wouldn’t look at closeness like a threat, or intimacy like a gamble rigged against him from the start.

But alas, he was not that kind of a man. He was not kind, nor selfless, nor decent enough to let her go or wish her better. He was someone who took what he wanted when he wanted it and how he wanted it.

And he wanted her, even knowing that if he gave in fully, if he let himself take what he was craving, he might leave marks he couldn’t erase. Knew that he couldn’t give her what she wanted, not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But this one, little night of his undivided attention he could offer her freely, even greedily.

He almost laughed against her skin at the audacity of it.

What an incredibly selfish, greedy, Aventurine thing to think. So in line with his wretched soul.

He didn’t rush, as impatient as he was.

He simply followed the line of her body with deliberate intent, a clear goal in mind, each movement so measured it bordered on dangerous, letting his mouth wander until he eased down to the edge of the couch, settling between her spread legs, cheek coming to rest lightly against the side of her raised knee.

He watched the tremble ripple down her spine, watched her arch reflexively against the sofa, watched hunger and hesitation war in her eyes as she leaned back against the cushions, her head tipping slightly as her breath faltered just enough to betray how deeply anticipation had already woven itself through her body. The moment thickened between them like velvet, heavy enough that he almost felt it on his tongue.

He stayed there, unhurried, letting the pause stretch until it bordered on cruelty, before lifting his gaze to hers. Mischief glinted there, sharp and knowing, but tempered by something darker that made her pulse jump.

His damp hair tickled her skin when she huffed a soft laugh.

“You sure are taking your time," she teased weakly, trying not to sound too eager. The haphazardly tied knot of her robe was barely holding on now, fighting against the pull as much as she did.

His mouth curved as he leaned in, raising her leg slightly, and then, just barely, she felt his teeth graze the inside of her thigh, a fleeting, sinful promise that made her inhale sharply. “I'm trying to be thorough,” he replied, voice muffled against her skin. “You know I have a bad habit of rushing.”

Her hands hovered in the air for a long second before she dared let her fingers slide tentatively through his hair again, as though testing whether the moment would shatter if she touched him too openly. It had been one thing to reach for him in the rush of desire, when his kisses drowned out her thoughts and he was devouring her breath like he meant to steal it, but completely another to do so now while he was looking at her so hungrily. It felt more real, more vulnerable.

He inhaled sharply at her touch, a traitorous hitch of breath he tried to bury before it could slip out.

She felt it anyway.

She had felt it before in fleeting, almost-missed moments: the split second of tension beneath his skin when her fingers brushed him unexpectedly, the way his smile sometimes snapped into place too quickly, too brightly, the effortless joke that always followed as if nothing had slipped, as if he hadn’t almost faltered. Like he was bracing for the moment she’d decide what he was worth and take exactly that much.

He was very good at hiding things.

Too good.

And suddenly, with him kneeling between her thighs, mouth drifting slowly down her skin, hands warm and certain on her hips, her hunger tangled painfully with hesitation.

She trusted him implicitly.

But she wasn’t sure if he trusted himself.

“Wait,” she breathed, leaning up on her elbows.

He stilled instantly.

Not offended, just quietly attentive, head lifting slightly so he could look at her. His hair fell over his forehead in loose gold strands, eyes still clouded with desire heavy enough that it took him a second to really hear her.

Her voice shook as she spoke, not from fear, but from how badly she wanted him.

“I... as much as I might regret what I'm about to say,” she faltered, then pushed on, words spilling out faster than she could steady them. “If this is too much or—”

She swallowed.

“I don’t want you to just… power through something for my sake.”

His expression didn’t change at first. For a heartbeat, he just stared at her, caught somewhere between instinct and intention, the momentum of the moment still pulling him forward even as her words settled in. Then a flicker of something startled and incredulous passed through his eyes.

Obligated?

Him?

Aventurine blinked slowly, stunned, as if recalibrating, before a soft laugh slipped from him. Unpolished, disbelieving.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, lifting his head, voice roughened with amusement and something dangerously tender, “do I look like I'm about to do something I didn’t want to do?”

The worst part was, she wouldn’t know if he was.

She learned that Aventurine did not lie the way most people lied. He was so good at deflecting, at dressing half-truths in charm and laughter, that she had no way of telling where the wall ended and honesty began.

There was no hesitation before it, no telltale pause or flicker of guilt. The falsehoods slipped out of him as smoothly as his smiles, polished and effortless, woven so neatly into truth that separating the two felt almost pointless. He knew exactly which tone to strike, which expression to wear, which fraction of himself to offer in any given moment to smooth edges, and shorten conversations, and keep the focus moving forward instead of inward.

Worse still, she suspected that even if something were truly too much for him, he would never show it. He would endure.

“I—I’m just trying to be careful,” she whispered.

How amusing.

That was a concern that didn’t belong anywhere near him. Careful was for fragile things, precious things. For things people wanted to preserve and cherish. It was not meant for expendable investments and spoiled goods. What he needed were people who handled him with suspicion, with admiration, with greed and calculation— never care.

He shook his head with a quiet, breathless laugh as he leaned back down, his forehead brushing her thigh in a gesture that felt dangerously intimate

“Of course,” he murmured wrily, with a rough, self-deprecating laugh. “Of course, the one time I seriously didn't want to, this is the conversation we end up having.”

He stayed there for a moment longer, forehead resting against her skin, breathing her in as if he were steadying himself, wanting to pull away, yet needing to lean in harder. Then he lifted his head slowly, until his eyes met hers again, and the look in them was unmistakable: warm, intent, dangerously amused.

He spread her wider, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder until she had no choice but to lean back against the couch again, enough to press the faintest brush of his lips indecently higher up her leg. Nowhere near dangerous territory, but leaving no doubt as to what his intentions were. She startled, an unguarded, breathless sound tearing from her as shock and want collided all at once. The robe slipped open further with the movement, helpless against his hands, against the way her body arched instinctively toward him, and she became acutely, painfully aware of how exposed she was, how obviously ready. Heat rushed through her, fierce and embarrassing, and she pressed her lips together, trying and failing to hold back another shaky exhale as his mouth traced even higher along her skin, sending a fresh ripple of sensation through her, each inch he covered making her pulse quicken.

He felt every tremor, every breathless hitch as he moved higher, and it only sharpened the hunger burning through him. Pride flared in his chest, primal and possessive, as he finally closed his mouth over the sensitive inside of her thigh and bit.

Her breath stuttered completely and she jerked against him, half in surprise, half in desperate approval. Desire flared hot and unfiltered across her face, and his satisfaction was palpable, rolling off him in waves as his lips lingered on her skin, painting it an ever deeper shade of red, and she knew with a trembling certainty, that this would leave a mark in more ways than one, that she had crossed a point of no return right along with him.

She felt exposed, claimed in a way that made her heart race, and the realization that he could see exactly how badly she wanted him, how openly her body was responding, only made her burn more.

And he enjoyed it because if she unraveled under him, then at least he wasn’t unraveling alone.

“Trust me,” he said, placing the last lingering brush of his lips against the tender spot, smile wicked, warm and utterly himself, “there is no place I would rather be.”

She tried to protest, but he cut her off with a heated glance, spreading her legs even more. “And I’m not powering through anything,” he murmured. “I’m exercising remarkable restraint.”

His fingers pressed into her thighs a little more firmly, a promise rather than a claim. “Which,” he added, voice dipping as he pulled her closer and the silk slipped even further, “is something you should probably appreciate.”

When he looked up at her again, there was nothing left of restraint, only heat and the quiet understanding passing between them.

“Now,” he said warmly as his thumb traced an idle, possessive line along her skin, the motion pulling the last shred of modesty of her cover away, “where were we before you so rudely interrupted me with your very noble, very inconvenient attempt at reason?”

She almost choked on a laugh. “Aventurine—”

He didn’t give her a chance to finish. Whatever she’d been about to say— some clever remark, some half-formed protest, some attempt to keep pace with him— died in her throat, sputtering out at the first touch of his mouth between her legs.

The sound that left her was barely a sound at all, more of a broken inhale, caught sharp in her chest. Her back arched, hands flying instinctively to his hair now, so unlike the careful attentiveness she attempted earlier, fingers threading deep, anchoring herself by force as he started devouring her in a way that was almost desperate, and all the more devastating for it. Her grip tightened reflexively, just a little too hard, and he welcomed it with a low sound that trembled through him, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into her grip like it was something he’d been waiting for all this time.

He was relentless, starving, his pace only broken by a rare ragged groan or a gasp as though he’d given up on breathing entirely, perfectly content to consume her instead. His focus narrowed until there was nothing but her softness beneath him, each ravenous and unchecked swipe of his tongue against her making her press even harder into him without thinking, which only seemed to deepen his appetite.

It was obscene, animalistic, and she swore there had to be something wrong with her, because the sounds escaping her mouth couldn't be coming from her. The couch pressed cool and damp against her overheated skin, the contrast disorienting, as he tasted every inch of her, tongue gliding as if he were mapping her by taste alone, memorizing the way her body reacted to him.

There was no hesitation left, no half-riddled questions, no sweet praises, no semblance of her devoted lover. Just frantic hunger.

He was rushing, pushing forward even with nowhere to go, almost in revenge or punishment or greed. She couldn’t say which, because she had been rendered unable to talk. And when she would try to open her mouth, or lean away, or try to pull him closer, his tongue would only slide in deeper. 

He dragged his mouth slowly, deliberately, finding her every sensitive spot with frightening precision and marking each reaction one by one. He chased the tiny tells she didn’t even realize she was giving him: the way her thighs trembled, the way her back arched just a fraction more when he hit something exactly right, the way her fingers spasmed against his scalp when sensation tipped from indulgent to overwhelming.

Each one was a prize.

And he hoarded them all.

As a particularly needy moan tore from her throat, somewhere in the back of her mind, she had enough hazy sense to suddenly be very, very grateful for his ridiculously isolated penthouse and the lack of nosy neighbours, and then she was thinking nothing at all as the rhythm he was setting grew more and more ruthless.

She tried to focus, to stay present, but he was claiming her inch by inch, and every time she arched closer, every time her body begged without words, he followed without hesitation, meeting her with a hunger that felt endless, greedy enough to hurt.

Need clawed its way up her throat, urgent and burning, and every time she thought she could get a grip on herself, he shifted imperceptibly, changed the pressure, altered the rhythm just enough to steal her breath again. Every attempt to plead, to order, to protest, he devoured it, twisting it into a reason to take more, to push further, to blur the line between agony and pleasure until she had no choice but to press even closer, desperate, hips shifting as her thoughts scattered, slipping away from her in pieces.

What came out instead were broken sounds, half-formed pleas that barely resembled language, her hands tightening in his hair as if she could hold herself together by holding onto him.

“Please… oh, don’t stop…” she gasped, desire and desperation tangled so completely she didn’t even know which she wanted more: the release or the torment. There was no space left for embarrassment, no room to worry about propriety or consequences. Not even the expensive sofa beneath her, that she knew would be ruined, mattered anymore. Everything narrowed down to that overwhelming tide building inside her, tightening and tightening until it felt unbearable, until the last fragile thread threatened to snap all at once.

Aventurine sharpened like a predator catching blood in the water. There was something darkly possessive in the way he lingered with a focus so consuming it felt like hunger sharpened into purpose, never slowing down. He wanted her to enjoy it more, wanted hear more of her sounds when she was already so close to losing herself, feel more of her opening so beautifully beneath his mouth. And judging by the way her body trembled, by the way her breath stuttered with every slow, devastating movement—

Not yet, but soon.

And he took it personally.

He stayed exactly where he was, unyielding, refusing to grant her the mercy of pause. It was as if he wanted to hear her come apart, wanted to strip her down to nothing but instinct and need. Her grip tightened in his hair again—to pull him closer, or push him away, she couldn’t say which—and he groaned deeply, the sound torn from him as his control stretched thin, pleasure edging so close to pain it made his breath stutter. He welcomed the sting, the ache, the way it grounded him even as it pushed her closer to the edge.

Too close.

"I—can’t—oh fuck…" Her body betrayed her in small, devastating ways. A shudder she couldn’t stop. A gasp she couldn’t hold back. The way she pressed closer without meaning to, chasing relief even as she begged for it to stop. Pleasure coiled tighter, heavier, pulling her under with slow inevitability until there was nothing left but just raw sensation and him.

Then, just barely, she felt the whisper of pressure, a teasing graze of his teeth against her.

Every nerve in her body ignited, every muscle betraying her as her hips jerked into him reflexively, responding to that sinfully light touch, and the tension she had been building, the relentless, all-consuming pressure, finally snapped. Release tore through her violently, and she came apart with a broken sound that might have been his name, might have been a prayer, might have been a confession, her body arching in a mix of shock and raw need.

Her body convulsed under him, quivering, and he let himself feel it all, let it drive him almost to the edge of his own control, grinning as she surrendered completely, utterly, shamelessly to him.

He never slowed, drawing out every lingering echo of her pleasure until she had nothing left but soft, helpless gasps and the trembling aftershocks he seemed determined to collect. Only when she began to come back to herself, when her body slackened, overstimulated and breathless, did his pace finally ease as though satisfied at last now that he’d taken exactly what he’d wanted and not a fraction less.

He stilled for a brief, shaking second as she dragged air into her lungs, forehead pressing against her thigh with a chuckle, bracing himself against the sheer weight of wanting her. His hands remained firm on her legs, possessive, refusing to let her drift away even as she caught herself.

“Still with me?” he asked lightly, his voice deceptively casual as he raised his gaze to look at her, and the sight of him, lips swollen and still glistening from her arousal, was enough to punch the air out of her lungs again, desire painfully throbbing.

She nodded because it was all she could manage, because forming words felt impossible, because she knew if she opened her mouth, the only word that would come out would be more.

His grin sharpened instantly at her disheveled state, pleased and unmistakably predatory. That smug curve to his mouth made her want to do something reckless, something just to wipe that expression off his face. And if she didn’t want him so badly, she might’ve actually done it.

But as it was, the sight of him like that only made heat coil tighter in her stomach.

“You are so...” she managed, voice still unsteady, "infuriatingly good at that."

Aventurine smiled like he’d just tasted victory again.

“Just lucky,” he murmured, low and amused, like he hadn’t just watched her unravel. Like he wasn’t savoring the way she was still shaking. “As always.”

She wanted to say more, had a dozen retorts lining up on her tongue, but Aventurine had never been a man who waited for permission when indulgence was involved. Insatiable was the word people used, as though it were excess, instead of impatience. He chased every thrill relentlessly, indulgently, until there was nothing left to wring from it. And right now, the only high he was interested in was her— still warm, still unsteady, her taste lingering on his tongue.

She felt the shift in his weight before she saw it, the subtle tightening of his hold as his focus sharpened with want so unmistakable she knew that he was going to dive back in immediately, clearly intending on picking up exactly where he’d left off despite the aftershocks still pulsing through her. Panic and pleasure tangled in her chest all at once, and she gasped, hands coming up on instinct, barely stopping him in time.

“Wait—” she breathed, voice breaking. “Just, give me a second— I—”

Her words collapsed into a breathless, almost hysterical laugh because she genuinely thought she might dissolve if he didn’t stop. “I’m— I’m going to die.”

Something dark and feral flickered behind his eyes, like he’d just been handed permission or a dare instead of a plea.

“Now, now,” he murmured teasingly as his thumb traced a slow, idle line along her inner thigh, nowhere near where she needed him, just close enough to promise it. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Mercifully, he did pause.

Instead of consuming her the way every instinct screamed at him to do, he drew back just enough to let her think he might relent, holding himself right at the edge, tension coiled tight through his frame as though restraint were a choice he was actively wrestling with.

For a split second, she thought he might actually stop. She let herself believe, foolishly, that he might grant her a moment, a breath, a pause for the lingering sensation to dull into something manageable instead of burning beneath her skin.

Aventurine watched that relief bloom.

He watched the way her body softened despite itself, the way she sagged back against the sofa, lungs burning as she finally exhaled.

And then, the instant she settled, he leaned back in with a wicked gleam in his eyes, fingers leaving her thigh and sliding suddenly upward, replacing his tongue against her sensitive bundle of nerves with torturous precision.

Her body reacted all at once— jerking, then immediately leaning back in a breath later, caught between instinct and need. She moaned sharply, shameless and helpless, because there was no warning nor hesitation, just a firm, deliberate graze against her already painfully sensitive core that did everything to remind her just how soaked, how exposed, how achingly responsive she still was. The sensitivity was both unbearable and exquisite, each nerve lit and singing as she was torn between pulling away from the overwhelming sensation and chasing it because the absence felt somehow worse.

“Oh, no,” he murmured immediately when she tried to pull away on instinct. His grip tightened on her waist, anchoring her in place. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already. We only just started.”

Her whole body shuddered at the promise buried in his tone.

Gone was the earlier hunger, the insistent edge of desperation. What replaced it was worse: calculated, playful cruelness. His touch wasn’t hurried or searching; it was all- knowing, maddening in its patience. Like he’d already memorized the place of each one of her buttons and was now pushing them back at his own pace.

His fingertips grazed just enough to tease, unravelling her without giving her anything she could cling to, never lingering long enough for relief, never straying far enough to let her collect herself, never enough to settle the ache. But just enough to keep her suspended, breathless, shaking beneath his attention.

He was savoring how easily her body responded, restraint layered over need, and the realization sent a tremor through her. He knew exactly what she needed and was enjoying every second of denying her clean release. Because denying her, stretching this out and keeping her right where she couldn’t escape him, fed something ravenous and gleeful in his chest.

And he intended to take his time.

His touch grew more intentional with her every reaction as though the pause had sharpened his focus rather than softened it. Her breaths came more shallow now, body responding faster than her thoughts could keep up. Each time she tried to steady herself, his fingers adjusted with slight changes in pressure, timing, pace— keeping her unbalanced, keeping her right where he wanted her.

And she needed him.

Fuck, she needed him, and she hated him for teasing her while the growing ache between her thighs threatened to ruin her whole. Her hips shifted without permission, chasing release forcefully, and his hand stilled her again immediately, anchoring her firmly in place while the other continued its slow, devastating exploration. He didn’t scold her.

He just held her still and kept going.

His fingers worked her precisely with painstaking care, never letting the tension break, keeping her balanced on the edge until her whole body trembled from the strain of it. And every time her hips lifted instinctively, chasing him roughly, he stopped her with another firm press of his hands.

A silent reminder: I decide what to give.

A soft, wrecked sound tore from her throat at the denial, and his chest rose sharply with satisfaction. He liked that sound far too much. Liked knowing he could pull it from her at will, that he could make her come apart slowly, beautifully, entirely because he wanted to.

And he wanted to strip her of composure layer by layer, not by force now, but by patience.

She didn’t know how she did it, but she managed to gather enough sense to speak. “This...” she accused weakly, even as her body betrayed her, breaking off in a gasp instead “...counts as cheating.”

Aventurine’s smile widened, slow and unapologetic, watching her falter with every precise swipe of his fingers. "You know I don’t cheat."

She sucked in a breath, trying to continue even as every word got stuck in her throat. “If this is where you start bragging, I swear—”

He lifted her leg just slightly, giving himself more access, pressing a slow, devastating bite to the inside of her thigh that stole the rest of her argument mid-sentence.

"Bragging? With my luck?" His thumb drifted devastatingly, making her whine, and he chuckled. "Sweetheart, if I were a gambling man—"

She inhaled sharply, panting. “You are.”

"— and fortunately for both of us, I am,” he went on, unfazed, hand shifing lower with exquisite precision. “I’d bet that if I did exactly this—”

He trailed off wickedly and before she could ask what he meant by that, his fingers slid inside of her as he finally decided to stop his infuriating teasing, meeting almost no resistance with how worked up and soaked she already was.

Her back arched despite herself, a broken sound slipping from her throat as she got used to the stretch. The new sensation was even more deliciously overwhelming, completely different from his mouth, and she clenched around him feeling so incredibly full. Each careful drag along her walls sent waves of electricity through her as he slowly learned her body.

She didn’t know if it was his luck, some cosmic joke in his favor, or the way he could read people like open books, but whatever it was, he had no trouble knowing exactly what she needed, showing no hesitation as he mapped her responses with the same focus he brought to every high-stakes game, learning her faster than felt fair.

She had always known he was skilled with his hands, had watched him shuffle cards until they blurred with effortless confidence, flipping chips across his knuckles like extensions of his own will. She’d just never imagined she’d come to learn that skill so intimately.

And damn him, it took him no time to press just the right way, find just the right pressure, just the right rhythm, until finally—

Her hips jerked up in a helpless, instinctive reflex, a fractured moan tearing out of her throat as he found that incredibly sensitive spot deep inside. Her nails dug desperately into the couch, into him, into anything she could reach, and he glowed.

Absolutely glowed.

“See?” he coaxed, tone light, fingers unrelenting in their careful torment. “Lucky, just as I said.”

She leaned up on her elbows, glaring down at him despite how badly she was shaking.

“I swear, if you keep talking...” she said slowly, deliberately. “I don't know.. what I'm going to do yet, but—" her words cut off in a downright sinful moan at a particularly precise swipe inside of her" —I'll make you regret it.”

He laughed quietly, manic, shivering with anticipation or hunger. He looked absolutely delighted at the rhythm, the rising intensity, the waves of pleasure that didn’t belong to him but still managed to spark delirious heat up his veins.

“Please,” he said, brushing another infuriating kiss to her thigh, “don't threaten me with a good time.”

She opened her mouth, stunned, some half-formed protest or quip hovering on her tongue, too slow to escape as he cut her off with another precise press on that same sensitive spot that surged straight through her. The sensation hit sharp and blinding, another helpless sound tearing from her chest as her back hit the cushions and she sagged, dizzy and trembling, breath fracturing into shallow, unsteady moans. She pressed her forearm over her eyes like that might somehow anchor her, like it might stop the way everything still felt too bright, too loud, too much.

His mouth skimmed her skin again, his words brushing against her like a second touch.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with something feral he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “I must say, I'm enjoying the view.”

She should've been embarrassed, but she couldn’t answer, not with his fingers sliding through her wet folds like that, not when his honeyed words made her melt pliantly under his touch. She dragged in a shaky breath, forcing herself to look at him. "One day... that ego is going to get you in trouble.”

“Maybe,” he shot back smoothly, not missing a beat. “But not today.”

He slowed even further, deliberately cruel in his restraint, his fingers easing enough to leave her aching for it. The change in pace wasn’t mercy. It was calculated. He wanted her to feel the absence as keenly as the contact, wanted the space between each electrifying movement to stretch until it hurt.

“Today,” he continued quietly, “it’s getting me exactly what I want.”

If she had any semblance of coherent thought, she would have argued, maybe even laughed at the sheer audacity of the man. Instead, all she could manage was a pathetic whine of his name, because the sinful swirls and harsh patterns he was executing weren’t patterns at all, but language, spelling something desperate along her nerves until her body had no choice but to answer.

She wanted to scream, call him cruel, but if she did, she’d be playing right into his perverted little trap. So, she did what she did best: she goaded him.

“You really—” she let out a breathless scoff, each word slurred “— really enjoy hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

Usually, her favorite thing about Aventurine was how good he was at talking. Ironically, right now, her least favorite thing about him was also how good he was at talking.

He hummed as he continued dragging cruel patterns inside of her that slowly threatened to draw her insane, forcing himself not to rush, to draw each movement out, the curl of his fingers accompanied by her muffled cries and the slick, obscene sounds echoing alongside her ragged breath.

“Oh, I do,” he agreed. “I just never had a reason to regret it until tonight."

Withdrawing his fingers nearly all the way, he didn’t give her a chance to relax as he plunged right back in again without warning, building the pressure with just a tad bit more friction, and her back arched with violent tremors.

“What?” she managed to gasp out, trying to sound composed, but the pressure building up in the pit of her stomach made it hard. "Did you...ah... tire your mouth already?"

His smirk turned sinful.

“On the contrary,” he whispered, leaning in until his mouth hovered exactly where she was most sensitive, close enough to make her entire body tense, “it's just that my mouth could be doing far more useful things right now.”

And judging by the wild, desperate look in his eyes, he was far from satisfied.

Again, he gave her no chance to protest as he dove in, hungrier than before, dragging pleasure out in long, relentless strokes of both his mouth and fingers that made her gasp and shudder, body arching helplessly as overpowering sensation flooded her nerves. A shudder rippled through her at the slow, devastating drags of his tongue, at the way he didn’t chase her release with his fingers but circled it endlessly, teasing so close to it that it made her hurt. He was everywhere, all at once, and she was losing the ability to tell time, losing track of where his touch ended and her need began. All she knew was heat and want and the unbearable fullness of being undone piece by piece. Her hands clawed at the cushions, desperate for purchase as pleasure overwhelmed her ability to hold on to anything at all.

He could feel the way her body tensed even as it shook, the way resistance melted into surrender. He noticed the way her breath stuttered, the way her hips shifted without permission, the way her thighs trembled as if her body already knew resistance was futile.

Something dark and satisfied settled deep in his chest.

Yes.

This was what he wanted.

Not a quick taking. Not a careless indulgence.

His other hand tightened around her thigh, pressing in to remind her she was held, contained, exactly where he wanted her, like even he was afraid he might lose composure before she did. He moved like a man who had all the time in the world, the way only someone out of his mind with lust could move. Like someone who had decided, very deliberately, that he was going to take everything from her, but only after savoring the slow, exquisite process of undoing her first.

He wanted to strip her down completely, to take every last drop of pleasure she had to give until there was nothing left but him. The taste of her lingered in his mouth. Every swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tasted like her, and it made him want to submit to every horrid urge and simply consume and consume until—

“Aventurine—!” she gasped, nearly sobbing the syllables, but it didn’t even sound like a protest anymore. She didn’t know if she was saying stop. She didn’t know if she was saying please. Maybe she wasn't saying anything at all, because the pressure was building again, and her hips lifted before she could stop them, chasing the high, desperate and soaked and aching from being edged so many times.

He murmured something arrogant and smug against her, a soft, wicked praise, and continued the exact same devastating rhythm, like he wanted to see just how far she could come undone.

“A-Aventurine, stop— I can’t—”

She thought he would ease off.

He didn’t.

If anything, her every reaction only seemed to spur him on more, as if he were chasing his own release instead of hers. He needed to hear every sound she tried to suppress, the way she'd cry out his name. Needed to feel every twitch. Needed to see the way her skin would flush as she lost herself in him, watch every involuntary tremor she didn’t even realize betrayed how close she was. It was the only thing he was able to concentrate on, the only thing he was able to think of.

“I… I—please…” she gasped, voice cracking, half-formed words tumbling into desperate moans. Her hands clawed at him, at his hair, at his shoulders, any anchor she could find as pleasure coiled impossibly tight in her stomach, threatening to tear her apart, but he was in his own world, devouring and muttering under his breath like a man in a trance, hungry in a way someone who knew exactly how far she could go, and who intended to take her there slowly, was.

She couldn’t speak, couldn't think. Her mind couldn’t hold itself together—

And that was when he finally looked up at her, eyes bright, lips swollen, hair mussed from her pulling, expression absolutely feral with delight.

“One more,” he promised lightly.

Smug. He was so, irritatingly smug and greedy, always had been. And right now, she was his favorite thing to hoard. Another quick slide of his fingers along her walls, perfectly timed with a vicious roll of his tongue onto the sensitive bundle of nerves. It was messy, she could feel her own need smeared along her inner thighs.

He was good, too good, and he made it so easy to surrender. And way too easy to make it worth it.

“Please,” she panted, voice a breathless whisper, “Aventurine, I—”

He groaned at that. When she gasped his name like it surprised her every time, something feral flickered behind his eyes. Pride, yes. But also relief.

See? it whispered. You still work. You’re still worth something.

He pushed those thoughts away and only pressed harder. Because if he could keep her breathless, unsteady, chasing him, then she wouldn’t have the space to look too closely.

She was dizzy, thighs quivering, chest heaving as she writhed under his touch. Incoherent pleas, that was all she could manage to utter. All she could bring her foggy mind to piece together as her nails pressed desperately into his shoulder.

She tried to turn her face, muffle the sounds spilling out of her throat with her other hand, but his hand only squeezed her thigh disapprovingly, moving faster and forcing her to moan around it. He was too good at dragging the sounds out of her throat no matter how hard she tried to swallow them, no matter how much dignity she tried to preserve. His pace was too brutal, too expert at making her lose composure to even attempt to keep it together.

Pleasure built higher and higher, tighter and tighter, until finally, with a sharp cry, she broke apart around him, this time even more intense than before.

For a second, everything else disappeared as release ripped through her, violent in its intensity. Pain, pleasure, everything blended together as she shattered, and then the world came back to her in pieces— sound first, then sensation, then the slow, dizzy realization that she was still trembling, still riding the echo of something that had torn straight through her. Every nerve felt too raw as she sagged against the couch, her body heavy and boneless, pleasure clinging to her like a second skin she couldn’t quite shake. She felt drunk on it, saturated, breath stuttering as she tried to gather herself, to remember how to exist without chasing the next wave.

And Aventurine hovered over her, utterly unrepentant, watching her come back from it all with naked satisfaction, a man admiring the aftermath of his own handiwork. He looked pleased in a way that was almost dangerous, like stopping now would never occur to him, like he’d happily keep pushing until there was nothing left of her but breathless compliance.

The thought cut through the thick haze of afterglow with sudden clarity: if she didn’t stop him now, he wouldn’t stop at all. He never did, not when he got like this. Not when he moved like a force of nature, relentless and insatiable, and keeping pace with him felt less like indulgence and more like a beautiful, terrifying way to die.

He opened his mouth, a momentary pause to gloat undoubtedly, but it gave her a chance to gather her bearings, and she scrambled to stop him. 

“No more,” she breathed, pulling him down to her with shaking hands. “Come here—now.”

He let her drag him to her by the shirt, body sliding over hers until his face hovered just inches away from her flushed, wrecked expression.

And Aeons, he looked thrilled.

“Yes?” he replied innocently, voice dripping smugness, brushing a thumb over her lip with amusement that contradicted everything he’d just done. “I’m a little busy at the moment, is it urgent?”

He sounded a little too satisfied with the fact that he managed to make her fall apart around his fingers and scream his name and weaken in his arms.

She smacked his shoulder weakly, more reflex than a reprimand, her hand trembling as much as the rest of her. He barely felt it. “You’re insatiable.”

A radiant grin split his face, the expression of a someone who knew he was winning and intended to savor it.

“Of course I am,” he said easily, like it was the simplest thing that she should've known he would ruin her like this. “You already knew that.”

“Aventurine—” she tried, warning threaded through her tone, though it dissolved halfway into something softer, less convincing.

“What?” he cut in at once, leaning closer, deliberately invading her space until his mouth hovered just above hers. “You make it sound like a flaw.”

She should have stopped him while she had the chance.

Instead, she raised her head and kissed him properly.

It was instinctive, her mouth finding his with a need that surprised even her, considering that she was still riding the lingering echo of her release, lips parting as she tasted the heady mix of both him and herself. It sent a sharp shiver straight through her, lighting something back up inside of her that she had just managed to quiet. Her breath hitched against his mouth, desire flaring anew, like her body hadn’t learned its lesson at all.

Aventurine froze for half a second, then smiled dangerously into the kiss, pleased beyond reason, kissing her harder as if she’d just proven his point for him.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, because he never stopped while he was ahead, he broke apart from her slowly, far too casually, watching her desire for him ignite in real time.

“Well,” he murmured against her mouth, voice low and pleased, “good thing my bed is big enough for two.”

Her breath caught, sharp and audible, betraying her far more than words ever could.

His smirk widened, smug and incandescent, pride gleaming in his eyes like he’d planned that reaction down to the second.